High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One)
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: An A Song of Ice and Fire FanFic writer wakes up in the body of Robert Baratheon at the beginning of A Game of Thrones. Does he commence to attempt a fix or does he immediately crap himself? Hey, why not both!
1. Prologue - Shattering Dreams

I floated above the chaos. Plate and mail and leather armored men on foot and a horse fought with sword and spear and axe in shallow water. Cohesion of lines was breaking apart. A big man sporting ridiculous oversized antlers led the point of a wedge of riders at an angle down a short, crumbling dirt embankment into the river. The lucky on both sides rushed out of the way. The unlucky, friend and foe alike, were bowled over; hewn; bludgeoned; trampled; maimed; murdered; drowned.

My vision swooped down into the back of the charge, darting between riders making my way forward; dirt and blood stained knights. I reached the front and spotted a near equal number of knights paused on a sand bar in about the middle of the slow flowing water. A man with a red glittering chest and equally ridiculous oversized dragon wings attached to his helmet was pointing; clearly giving orders.

Pure fury arose within me, unlike any passion I'd ever experienced before. The fact that I now wore the silly antlers riveted to my helm bore no significance for me. All I knew was hate. I was no longer disembodied. I was a part of the hot, physical madness. The spiked warhammer in my powerful grasp felt light as a feather and quivered for blood.

A wave of riders started trampling off the sand bar into the water, curving round toward me in a counter-charge. We had been spotted. But the cursed Dragon did not join his guard. I lifted my hammer and gave a waggle at the same moment I instinctively started slowing my mount.

The wedge shifted into a diamond with the mighty Stag now in the center.

The two forces collided. Men and horses began shearing off both sides in continued combat or by falling to mortal injury.

The shield of knights in front of me finally swept away, I smashed out once, twice, thrice. No man withstanding the blows. The last of the counter-charge disposed of, I viciously raked spurs into my beast's flanks. He sprang forward. "TARGARYEN!" I roared.

Challenge accepted. The last score of raping bastards on the sand bar came forth to meet me straight on.

Without looking, I felt the bannermen beside me, forming into another wedge with me the deadly point.

The others did like-wise, with the vile incest spawn as the lead of their tri-headed beast.

Now the water deepened. Not much, but enough. Momentum fell as my warhorse pushed through the weight. Luckily, the pocket was wide, capturing the foemen's speed too. This would be a melee, not a joust.

Horses crashed chest to chest.

Heroic champion met evil villain.

A sword hammered hard on my shield. I swung my hammer sideways. He both ducked and tipped his shield just so. The point skipped up and off from the angle, carrying the mass of the ironhead off into space.

He smote again and again at my off balance body. I shifted my own shield as best I could in answer. The whoreson was fast. He struck a glancing blow on the joint of my hammer arm, popping mail rings on the inner elbow. I barely felt it.

My backswing clipped off one wing of his stupid helmet.

Our horses slowly pivoted, each vicious monster thumping into the other; carrying their masters' hate with teeth and spittle.

More blows were exchanged. Chaos swirled barely noticed around the vacuum of my own conflict. The war would end here and now one way or the other.

I saw an opening. The rapist could not dodge. My arm reared back and then started forward.

Still, the Dragon tongue lashed out like a viper. The point of his blade pierced through the undermail of my hammer arm's shoulder pauldron. I felt the sting of flesh parting. My swing kept coming. Steel grated against bone and then my back plate shifted slightly, the point all the way through a part of my flesh.

Clang.

He'd gotten his shield up, the demon. Not good enough, I laughed cruelly to myself; the point of my spike puncturing through the thick iron reinforced oak. My strength holding despite the wound, I pulled back on the warhammer while clutching my upper arm tight to my body.

Rhaegar tugged in vain on his sword, finding the blade only shifted slightly against malleable flesh and hard bone. He could not remove it from my body; his weapon trapped.

I heaved with all my might and several hundred pounds of man and metal began lifting out of his saddle. His thighs clutched desperately at the barrel of this mount. Feet sought frantic purchase in stirrups. The Stag commenced to shake the Dragon. More pain ripped through my side, wetness dripped down within my armor, yet I refused to yield to it.

The foe's purchase on his mount in peril, he at last released his sword and with two hands started to pull back on the shield. By millimeter and then by centimeter, the Dragon eased back toward his saddle.

Pop.

The spike ripped out of the shield.

Rhaegar dropped back down awkwardly, scrambling to regain balance atop his seat.

"DIE!" I screamed, simply slamming the steel top of the free warhammer straight into his chest.

Rubies shattered. Rubies shot off the black and red three headed dragon surcoat. The fine steel plate beneath the silk crumpled. Chest cavity ruptured. Broken, shattered ribs pierced heart and lungs and liver.

I smashed him again.

Rhaegar Targaryen toppled dead into the Trident. Dark, bloody waters began to cover over the submerging form of the lifeless Dragon.

* * *

The lazy swirls obscuring my sight dissipated into a soft breeze of cold morning air and steaming breath issuing from the mouths of horses in a ragged line that carried a bevy of fur bundled men and a few boys. Over their heads hung a banner lightly fluffing in the wind; a white banner showing a grey direwolf. I watched them from where I was bound, shivering, hand and foot to a wall.

Two hard looking men wearing the same colors of the banner were not mounted. At a gesture from the mounted man in the middle of the line, they came forward and cut with knives the ropes that secured me to the frozen stone.

"Get up," one of them muttered.

Another kicked my legs. "Face it like a man, deserter. Move."

Petrified, I stayed in place, shivering harder.

From where the cordage still wrapped hard around my ankles and wrists, they dragged me to the middle of what I now realized was a square shaped courtyard; placing me beside a stump of dark wood.

Nononononononononono.

The man in charge, the most stern faced of the lot, dismounted.

A young man uncased a very long, very wide smokey blade and handed it over to the leader. Walking over to me, he hefted it once, twice. He paused; then took of his gloves, handing them to one of the pair who had carried me to my inevitable doom.

I stared up at the icy face in mute fascination.

The one who didn't take the gloves pressed his boot in my back, forcing it down upon the rough cut of the wood.

My evident executioner took hold of the great sword in both hands.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

Wait. So much to tell you. But I only made a gurgling sound.

' _Patience, child of man_ ' whispered in my brain.

Ned Fucking Stark lifted Ice high above his head.

The guard took his heel off me, but I didn't, I couldn't move.

' _Great magic requires blood and dragon fire_.'

I found myself bouncing across the uneven ground of the courtyard, catching a glimpse or three of a headless corpse spurting gouts of red into the snow about the stump.

I came to rest near the feet of the youth who had passed over the Valyrian forged sword. He looked down at me in amusement. 'Reek, rhymes with Sneak,' I thought as I stared up into dark eyes that grew and grew until I saw a reflection in them – a face. One half pudgy and black bearded with a blue eye over a strong nose and wide mouth. The other balding, with a more white than dull brown beard framing a hazel eye, stubby nose, and thin lips.

* * *

"AGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I screamed. Something was choking me, entangling me. I writhed and kicked, freeing myself from its deadly embrace.

The door burst open and a red bearded man in a white cloak rushed in, sword drawn. "Your Grace?!" he shouted, eyes shifting left and right in search of ... something.

I rolled off whatever I lay on, knocking a table over. Falling, I hit something hard and unyielding. The floor? Immediately after, liquid started splattering over me. My heart rushed so hard it seemed ready to burst. I … I wasn't dead?

"There is no one here, your Grace," the guard announced cautiously.

"A dream. I had just been …" No, back up farther than that, something cautioned me. "I fought a man with a dragon helm and raiment's sewn with rubies," I announced dumbfounded.

"Ahh, Rhaegar, your Grace," the man mumbled knowingly and with an obvious twinge of embarrassment.

"Rhaegar?" 'What the fuck!?'

"Aye, your Grace."

'And why are you calling me …' "Shit!" Some minor semblance of earth shattering understanding pounded its way through my aching skull. Other parts hurt too; and not the usual places my middle aged body had reluctantly grown used to.

Naked and afraid on the floor was not the place to start a kingship. So I raised my miserable, odd, wine stained body up to its damned big feet; then promptly started to wobble. The floor looked further away than it had any right to be. Noting it was a bed I had fallen off of, I took advantage and sat heavily down on it. "Oooof," I groaned.

The white cloak with a red beard looked at me expectantly. This behavior apparently not seeming so 'odd' to him.

"Give me a moment … Ser … Meryn," I hazard a scary ass guess.

The man, satisfied by my logical leap, nodded, before adding carefully. "Your Grace, the party is ready to leave at your ease." Pause. "Ser Jaime came to wake you several … uhm … hours ago."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, double fuck. God damn Alien Space Bats. Breath. Again. From scary ass guess to shit inducing deadly reality. I'm not writing this fixfic crap now. Too genuine. Too lethal. Mommy!

Genre Savy.

Nononono. I warned you, but did you listen to me? Oh, no, you knew, didn't you? Oh, its just a harmless little bunny, isn't it?

Armed with canon.

Run away! Run away! Run the FUCK away.

"ShitshitshitFuckityShit!" I announced, trying my best to stop my bladder from exploding.

Time. Time to figure out when and where I am. Then run away.

"Send in my squires," I at last commanded gruffly.

Trant left, leaving me for the moment alone with my new body.

I looked down at it … hmmmn, I appraised … hairy, pudgy to fat, big boned, still fairly muscular. Later-ish Robert, not heroic Robert. Closer to the fire than the frying pan.

I suddenly realized I still needed to piss. I looked around for the inevitable bucket. There's always a slop bucket in these stories - no indoor plumbing. Ahh, there. Shitting was definitely going to be an issue when it finally happened. I went over and began to relief myself.

Hey, big there too.

Maybe it's not so bad to be the King?

"Your Grace," a teenage voice called out behind my naked back.

I involuntarily flinched mid-stream.

Or maybe it is.


	2. Part 1 - This Shit is Real, or is it?

Dream? Reality?

Reality? Dream?

Fuck me!

Dream? Reality?

I am so fucked!

Reality? Dream?

Dream? Reality?

Those were my thoughts pretty much on a continuous loop as Tyrek Lannister, pretty but not pretty enough in my estimation to be Lumpy, directed two pages in garbing me. Cod piece? Really? Christ!

Walking out of the bedroom wasn't much better. I felt unnatural in my giant body, every movement awkward; almost like a stumbling drunk. how ironic. Worse, my brain felt like mush as I watched the world pass by me in a haze.

Nothing looked familiar. I tried to tap into any residual memory so many fanfic writers describer their SI characters having access to in these fictional situations: a jumbled glimpse or three of ... I don't know what, was it even Robert, then a headache and an all consuming, unknown craving.

Hhmnnn, probably not the Red Keep something told my distracted mind. Through the arrow slits in the circular tower stair that the barely teenage looking squire led my clunky body down - with Trant and his white cloak following close behind, I spied small non-blood colored outer walls, a small courtyard, and fields in the distance. Then into a "modest" sized great hall - might only seat fifty or seventy five.

"Would your Grace care for some food?"

I shook my head mutely as the zombie-like walk continued.

'There!' My body screamed at me.

Without thought I stepped over to a table and lifted up a pitcher. Straight to the mouth.

Clug, clug, clug.

Beer. Sweet, darling, delicious beer. Nothing had ever tasted so …

I pulled back from the brink. THAT was the strange craving. Remember, Robert's a fucking alcoholic; so now I was one too. Fucking Fantastic!

I shivered in pleasure and dread, setting the dregs down. I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my silk shirt, and took a deep, deep breath.

Against my body's wishes I set one foot in front of the other - out the hall's double doors, across the open space with men and women bowing at me, and through the castle gate. That wasn't so ... hard. Who the hell was I fooling. Oh look, several hundred riders and one honking big carriage apparently waiting on me, Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingsdoms and a scared shitless fraud.

Tyrek continued leading the way and I simply kept following. I was a finely skilled follower and a piss poor leader. Awesome skills to bring into this Alien Space Bat arranged marriage of middle aged IT professional mind and overweight mid-thirties warrior King body. We headed towards the ... ah yes, wheelhouse, GRRM called them. A white cloak and a red clock stood just outside it. Both of them blonde ... and ... and beautiful as hell. Cersei and Jaime Lannister as I live and hope to continue to breath. I wanted to run, but somehow couldn't help my mesmerized self - I continued straight in their direction.

Breath.

Dream? Reality?

Reality? Dream?

They want me dead!

Run away! Run away! Run the FUCK away.

Annoyance was clearly written across Cersei's face. "We'll be lucky to make it out of Brindlewood's lands and into Crownbluff's before dark, thanks to you," she snapped peevishly. "Luckily, Jaime has already sent riders ahead to clear out the best inn for us. I won't stay at that miserable little holdfast of Lord Ferril's.

My mouth gaped in astonishment.

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you still drunk, Robert?"

"Gods, your gorgeous," I declared in a voice an octave lower than mine own. It was true. It was all I could think to say. She was … divine. Emerald eyes to fall into. Perfect skin. A model's cheek bones. And as I drew quite close, hair that smelled of cinnamon and spice.

The sister fucker burst out laughing at my befuddled pronouncement.

Cersei instead stomped her foot. "Just like you." Then the fallen angel turned her back on me and climbed up into the large, unmotorized, luxury Westerosi wagon.

"A new tactic for deflecting my sister's ire, your Grace?"

"Hhmmn?" I mumbled without noticing, my attention still focused on that angel fallen from heaven. She had looked equally superb from the backside; delectable ass shifting beneath a just taut enough, just sheer enough silk dress as she climbed the stairs to escape me.

Jaime Lannister resumed chuckling at my expense.

"What?" I finally asked.

"Your horse is this way, my lord. Lancel is tending to it."

I nodded.

"If you will follow me."

Reluctantly, I trudged after him.

Fuck. He was a good looking dude. Tall, but not as tall as me. And easily a hundred pounds lighter, all of it pure muscle.

Neither Jaime nor Cersei looked anything like their show versions did. There was one of my story theories shot to hell. I wondered what their inbred children looked like. I guessed I'd find out soon enough. In the books, Sansa described Joffrey as extremely handsome. While the HBO show's version was ... appropriately weaselly for what a bastard he was. Ha, bastard. Don't forget that, Paul. That's why they want to kill you ... or at least one of their reasons.

With a parcel of "Your Grace"s, I approached a huge horse surrounded by a bunch of guards and fighters and lords and what nots. A prettier Justin Bieber type handed me the reins. Lancel - Lumpy.

I stared at the beast. I'd never ridden before. I stared some more ... and searched my muddled mind for any muscle memory from this body's previous inhabitant.

"I did not think we drunk that much together last night, your Grace, that you'd forgetten how to mount a horse," a pleasant sounding, amused voice called out.

I looked around for it. Tyrion. Definitely unattractive book Tyrion. Not the Cadillac of Little People as I'd heard people refer to Peter Dinklage on various chat boards.

The smile below the mismatched eyes widened. "One boot goes into that leather bound piece of metal, then you grab the pommel tight, pull, and lift." He explained slowly, quite amused, as if speaking to a child.

Or I could ride I the wheelhouse.

Deep breath.

Fat body, but nothing soft about these arms. With surprising ease, I found myself perched in the saddle. Ample ass and thighs to grip with.

I swayed a bit. Everyone looked at me expectantly. "Move out!" I bellowed angrily. No one liked looking the fool. They moved. Thankfully, my horse seemed to take to the idea too, or herd instinct cut it.

Clip clop clip clop clip clop clip clop.

My journey had begun.

* * *

Threats. Incident Probabilities. Security Controls. Vulnerabilities. Asset Losses. Remediation. Mission.

Short Term Goal: Stay Alive.

Long Term Goal: Stay Alive … happily.

Even Longer Term Goal: Save Westeros ... hey, hey, one thing at a time, buddy. One thing at a time.

Threat Probability - Threat Occurence: A) Cersei/Jaime (High Probability – Immediate), B) Tywin Lannister (Moderate Probability – Moderate Timeframe), C) Littlefinger (High Probability – Immediate), D) Varys (High Probability – Moderate to Long Term), E) Martells (Low Probability – Long Term), F) Daenerys (Moderate Probability – Long Term), G) The Others (High Probability – Long Term), H) Westeros (Always – Always Immediate), I) Fate (TBD?)

Security Controls: A) Being King, B) Being King, C) Allies: Stannis, Renly, Stormlands, Ned Stark (The North). D) Armed with canon.

Vulnerabilities: A) I'm a fat, out of shape alcoholic, B) wife wants to kill me, C) shit load of others want to kill me, D) weak ass unreliable Kingsguard aside from Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, E) most "allies" suspect, F) Bankrupt and in debt, G) How do you fight Magical Beings that control the walking dead.

Asset Loss Exposure: A) My head, B) Iron Throne, C) All Westeros. Worry about A the most.

Oh, Ironborn ... and Euron Greyjoy.

Remediation: A) Everyone loves a winner, B) Decapitation Strikes, C) Divide and Conquer, D) Suborn Dragons, E) Dragon Glass, F) Wildfire

Matrix complete, or as complete as I could make it with a giant brain jumble and no paper to sketch it out on, I looked about. Everyone had been pretty damn silent around me so far. Beware the hungover regal temper. And the pace, again almost certainly set by yours truly, had been slow. Barely keeping a head of the monster truck carriage.

Tyrion noted my newly outward oriented gaze. He spurred his mount to move closer. He pulled a wineskin out of his interestingly crafted saddle. "Some hair of the hound?" he waggled encouragingly.

I swallowed hard. Sooooooo tempting. In a world where sanitation was shit, brewed beverages, spirits, and wines are the safest things to drink, I told myself.

Did I put an entry under vulnerabilities for "I'm a fat, out of shape alcoholic?" Yes. Yes, I did.

I smiled ruefully and shook my head no; too afraid to open my mouth to respond for fear I might issue a moan.

Tyrion grinned wryly. "You don't mind if I do?" Then lifted the skin to his mouth before even an alert HPRobert could have answered. "Ahhh," he said blissfully.

"Cunt," I swore.

The halfman almost spit out wine in stifling a laugh. "Really, have some then, your Grace," he recovered.

"No," I grunted. Time to take the stupid sounding Robert bull by the antlers. "So, uh, Tyrion. Remind me again, where are we riding to?"

"You?" Tyrion's head tilted to the side. Eyebrows atop the bottom of the jutting forehead arched. "Winterfell, your Grace," he announced slowly. Followed by, "How much did you drink last night? I swore I had only the two bottles to your normal four."

Winterfell. To make Ned Stark my unqualified Hand. "That's not what your sister asked. She wondered if I was still drunk?"

Tyrion snorted. "If I was married to a woman with the temperament of my lovely sister …"

So lovely. Hot. Sexy.

"... I'd most likely stay drunk day and night too."

"And how many days out of Kings Landing are we?"

"Seriously?" The head tilted again. Those off matched eyes stared oddly at me. "You jape, your Grace. Four days and …" he gestured with his hand to indicate the current convoy "… however long today. An hour or so?"

I nodded. Four days. My last thoughts. My last dream was of the beheading of the Night's Watch deserter. That was Chapter One in the books. Chapter Two, same day, was Catelyn in the Godswood telling Ned of the Jon Arryn's death and the coming of Robert to Winterfell.

"Remind me, Tyrion. How long would it take to send a raven from King's Landing to Winterfell?"

"Four or five days, your Grace."

' _Great magic requires blood and dragon fire_.' That memory of dream surfaced icily in my thumping skull. Ice is made of Valyrian Steel, forged in dragon fire ... supposedly. That made as much sense as any explanation for the how of my ... transition, translation, teleportation, transportation ... not that it mattered. Bloodraven. R'hllor. Alien Space Bat. I can't unfuck myself out of here. No, click your ruby slippers together three times, Dorothy. Poof!

"And we are only four days out of King's Landing," I at last repeated stupidly.

The halfman nodded in mute affirmation. Undoubtedly wondering when I had struck my head.

Divide. Decapitate. Conquer. More likely, kill or be killed.

"Tyrion, find your brother and a score of armed riders. There is unfinished business I must attend to in King's Landing. We'll have your sister and the rest of the party continue along. We'll catch up to them in a week or so," I commanded loud enough for all in hailing distance to hear the royal command.

Time to try and act like a leader with a plan.


	3. Part 2 - No, it is, commence self pity

I finally did take a shit.

Dream? Reality?

Reality? Dream?

Nothing like dropping a big, steaming, smelly turd among the limited privacy of some trees while a score of men pretended to look away to invoke reality. Wiping my ass with a rough hand clothe after was only the cherry on top; handed over upon dismount care of Tyrek – it's good to be the King, everyone else I had noted so far had to handle their own dumps. But only one squire to pamper my royal ass? Lumpy I'd left behind to hopefully start implementing Plan C.

As I remounted (easier done without conscious thought than not; c'mon Robert's memories, muscle and otherwise), and decided to lift my ostrich neck out of the sands of denial, the question was: Would I give a shit?

My bodily survival kind of depended on it. Grimdark Westeros and all that ambiance matched up with my "character's" death before the first commercial break to prove how dire the situation is. Well, maybe more than a redshirt. I am king after all, eh? ' _Well, how'd you become king? Was it the Lady in the Lake, her arm in shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water?_ ' Or was it, ' _By exploiting the workers. By hanging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the ..._ ' Focus. Stay focused. The Python quotes can wait.

But how big of a shit? How would I react/reinvent myself to this hellish, backward, medieval environment after the inevitable fear and depression hopefully wore out. To pull an ISOT reference: Be like Marian Alston (the impossibility of becoming a Black Lesbian aside) or a William Walker? Or somewhere in the squishy middle ground?

I did believe I had a moral backbone, if somewhat flexible. Could I keep it? Would these people become/stay real to me? Or as power corrupted, would they become mere playthings to order about.

I was lazy, not terribly strongwilled, and hated confrontation. Lovely, lovely qualities for a king surrounded by dozens of known and how many unknown landmines; with a Zombie Ice Apocalypse just waiting on the event horizon. Super Fun!

Fighting this body's evident alcoholism would strain my limited self-control to the max. And losing weight? Learning a modicum of fighting skills, if there was in fact no Robert to tap into? Thankfully so little other stress around me … NOT! Being King at least did offer benefits. Mmmmm, Cersei … which would be rape?

Different moral environment here in Westeros. Trying to implement a classic neo-Liberal, Judeo-Christian ethos would be fatal to little old fifteen year younger now fat me.

Stop rationalizing.

Serious, ugly shit is gonna happen by your orders whether you like it or not.

So why not take advantage of the benefits of being king?

You spin me right round, morals; Right round like a record, morals; Right round round round

* * *

Jesus may have wept.

I sobbed a torrent that night.

Alone in an inn's top floor with my memories of Rebecca, Keira, and Charlotte.

A weak stranger in a strong strange land.

Alone.

* * *

Another Long Night. The hollow man would wake with hollow eyes.

* * *

Fucking louses.

King's Landing would have appeared more impressive if I wasn't scratching myself so badly.

Or had a cranking headache and some shakes from my attempts to limit this body's beer and wine consumption.

And wanted to puke from fear and anxiety.

Still, I felt like applauding. Well done. Great job. Most impressive. Just don't give me cholera or … other very nasty diseases like cholera that I can't remember without looking on Wikipedia. Tetanus? Bubonic Plague? Shit, just avoid plain old dysentery.

My groin tingled. Had Robert already gotten the clap? God or Gods know if anyone in Westeros had earned an STD, it was him. I prayed he hadn't. Probably just the louses … or crabs.

Were the maesters at the Red Keep trained to only allow "clean" girls into Robert's bed chamber?

Just one of many elements of life I know wished George had put a little more (or any!) time in describing.

* * *

High Plains Robert rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, shaky, nervous, and irritable. An honor guard was drawn up not so far in past the gates. I assumed word of Robert's return would arrive quicker than I would. "Where is my Small Council?!" I snapped before my courage could seep away.

A man in the receiving party dressed better than the others bowed low, "I shall summon them at once, your Grace." He stood back up, snapping his fingers. Men in the back scurried off. This man must be my steward or the keep's castellan. "However, I fear that the Lord Stannis departed for Dragonstone two days ago."

Figures. I knew he'd fled, but couldn't remember the exact sequence. No books or a wiki of ice and fire to aid me now. And no actor's supposed ability for ridiculous amounts of memorization either.

I dismounted, muffing the job with wobbly jello legs, near tumbling over. I clutched at the saddle and stirrups to remain upright. No one laughed. "Bring me a stool," I grunted.

"His Grace has been ailing," Tyrion announced amicably.

A stool duly appeared. I sat heavily upon it. Sweat was pouring through my clothes. I leaned my head down, putting it inside my two gigantic mitts. I felt faint. I vomited.

A few calls of "Your Grace?" shot out.

I weakly shook the voices off. "Wine," I croaked.

Someone offered me a skin. Rinse. Spit. Rinse. Spit. Chug, chug, chug. Soooooooooo good. So damn good. My muscles stretched taut. "That's better," I murmured, then suddenly grew wary. Who had given me the wine? Was it poisoned?

"Shall we retire to the Small Council chamber, your Grace?" the steward suggested smoothly.

"No," I grunted. Ears and eyes and mute mouths probably kept watch on those chambers somehow. Out in the open would be the most private, the most secure. I tried to gather my thoughts as my head stopped swimming thanks to the beautiful, wonderful wine.

"Has my brother Stannis returned from Dragonstone?"

"No, Lord Stannis has not, your Grace."

"Send for Pycelle's deputy maester. There will be many ravens flying later today. The Grand Maester will need all the help he can get."

"Certainly, your Grace." There was much muttering in the background at my pronouncement.

"And someone find Slynt. I need him too."

"At once, your Grace." More muttering.

* * *

Varys was the first to shuffle up. Not Con what's his name from the show. No more than Jaime was that Danish fellow or Cersei what's her name from 300 with a wig. Still, not hard to figure out who the bald headed one in the voluminous cloak was.

"Your Grace, a pleasure to see you and be able to server you again so soon. Is all well?"

"It will be." I wondered from where and for how long the Eunuch had watched me sit on this stool before making his entrance.

Barristan Selmy, white hair and white cloak denoting him even to my eye, came next. "Your Grace," he announced, giving a bow.

"Ser Barristan, it is good to see your noble face. Is all well in King's Landing?"

"There is little change, your Grace. Other than Lord Stannis departing for Dragonstone on some urgent business. If I may, you do not look well, your Grace," the Bold dared utter, not willfully blind to the former contents of my stomach that the flies were buzzing.

"I heard. And yes, I feel like shit. But that can wait."

Ser Barristan nodded. I saw him shift a quick glance over to near where Jaime was now standing behind me.

Littlefinger rode in through the gate. "I heard rumor the King had returned. Such informative things rumors. Is there trouble, your Grace? I hope the Queen and the Princes are well."

I glared at him.

He smiled in response, dismounted, and strolled all amiability up to the circle around me. He looked at my feet. "I take it the Small Council will meet here today, your Grace?"

Renly in dark green with embroidered golden stags, and a dozen hangers-on, came next. Loras and his flower themed superhero costume standing out the most amongst the bevy of strong, exceptionally good looking knights.

"Brother!" my not brother called out cheerily.

"Renly, been tending diligently to your duties in my absence?"

"Always, brother."

"Ha," I barked.

"Certainly not to Stannis' standards," he quickly defended himself with a smirk. "Though your Master of Ships appears to have sailed off." Sigh. "Not that I mind the loss of my daily beratement." Small chuckle.

Glare. "Oh shut up, Renly."

Silence.

A murmur.

Another royal glare.

And more silence.

It's good to be the king.

Until. At last …

"Your Grace, I did not think I would have the pleasure of laying eyes upon you so soon. My apologies for making you wait. T'is a long walk down from the Rookery. And a man of my years, I do tire so … "

"Yes, yes, Pycelle. Enough," I barked.

"The Small Council will meet here. Now. Ser Jaime, Tyrion, and you, master," I pointed at the younger man who had accompanied Pycelle. "You will stay. And let the Commander of the Gold Cloaks through when he arrives. The rest of you lot, bugger off out of ear shot."

The shuffling commenced.

"Very intriguing, Robert. I dare say there hasn't been a meeting with this much promise since I joined the Small Council," Renly drolled with amusement.

I ignored the better looking, younger version, more vigorous image of my current self. Where to begin. Where to begin. Might as well bury the lead, cause once that came out; nothing else would much get done or heard. I took a breath. Much of my sweat had dried, but more was now breaking out. I took another swig from the wineskin, emptying it.

Another deep breath. "Ser Jaime, why did you kill Aerys?"

Heads all pivoted in surprise at the question, staring past me.

I'll give the sister fucker credit, he didn't stay surprised long. A laugh. "I thought that was obvious, I'm a Kingslayer. Everyone knows that, your Grace."

I refused to turn me head to look at the man behind me. I knew I couldn't meet his eyes. I stared down into my vomit. "Do not dishonor the vows you took when Arthur Dayne knighted you, Ser Jaime. Do not dishonor Ser Gerold Hightower who put that white cloak on your shoulders. Answer your king."

If my command heightened the tension, my ostrich imitation limited my poor social skills from sensing it.

A slightly nervous laugh, then, "Aerys was mad. The war was lost. There was no sense in any more deaths."

"Who's deaths?"

Another laugh, "Why anyone's, your Grace."

"Aerys' wasn't the only death you caused that day, Ser Jaime. Who else."

"There were so many. Kingslayers must stay in practice, no? Oh look, our heroic Commander of the City Watch."

"Answer me, Ser Jaime," I yelled.

… nothing.

"Answer me!"

"The Hand of the King," he admitted. "Another obstacle."

"The Pyromancer."

"Wisdom Rossart had recently replaced Lord Qarlton Chelsted," Pycelle weezed in explanation, which all present except myself undoubtedly knew already. "King Aerys was fascinated with …"

"Shut up, Pycelle. Why would you kill a Pyromancer, Ser Jaime? Your father's troops were already within the city. Why would a Kingsguard, sworn to powerful oaths protect his king, kill that King and a Pyromancer?"

… more nothing. I hoped he wouldn't pull his sword on me.

"Tell me!" I roared in Robert's loudest voice straight into the ground.

"Aerys was planning to burn down King's Landing," came the quiet, bitter answer.

"How?" I asked just as quietly.

A snort. "With wildfire, the king was made for the vile stuff."

"And Rossart?"

"He was on his way to ignite the stashes. A thousand jars or so. I saw the maps where the substance was placed."

Silence.

No murmurs.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime. You are Kingslayer no more. The Realm is in your debt."

A round of "ayes" followed.

I at last looked up. "Grand Maester Pycelle. You were in the Red Keep. Your words convinced Aerys to open the city gates to Lord Tywin. What did you know of this plot?" I growled.

Eyes widened fearfully over that long, long white beard. "Nothing, your Grace. King Aerys could be quite secretive and manipulative. I swear I knew nothing. Nothing. I would have … I would have warned Lord Tywin if I had," he sputtered.

"You failed the Realm, Grand Maester. Dreadfully. What use are you to …"

"Such is the work of the Master of Whisperers," he whined. "Lord Varys failed. My … my mistakes are negligible compared to his."

"Stop babbling!" I saw him quiver. It gave me pleasure to see it, frightening that two faced old man. "You will send a message by raven tonight to the Citadel, Pycelle. And you will tell them that age has rendered you unfit to serve any longer as Grand Maester and so you have resigned."

"I …"

"Or the consequences will be severe. On the morrow you shall take ship to Old Town. And when you arrive, you shall never, ever, leave again." I would have enjoyed seeing his adam's apple bob in discomfort, but the damned long beard hid it. Or piss his robes like when Tyrion ambushed him."Do you understand?"

"Yes, your Grace. You are most merciful," the sycophant oozed in relief.

"Lord Varys …" I turned my head towards him, but lowered my gaze to where his hands rested within the wide openings of his robe's long sleeves.

"I readily acknowledge my failure, your Grace. I can be on a ship within the hour. Never to return to Westeros again," he spoke reassuringly.

"Not quick enough," someone, probably Littlefinger, chortled with vicious glee.

"Lord Varys, if you take a step. Or withdrawl your hands from your robes, Ser Barristan will kill you instantly. Gently, Ser Barristan. No threatening moves unless called for. We are being watched by our Master of Whisperers little birds. Are we not, Varys?"

He tittered politely. "Your Grace, gives me too much credit."

A white cloak moved deliberately beside the Eunuch.

"The Red Keep is littered with secret passageways and listening nooks. The stone bed in your humble quarters tips up to lead down into some of them. Would you care to explain how it triggers?"

"I would gladly show you my quarters."

"I am sure you would, Varys. But you are staying right here. Tell us."

"There are secret passages which I use from time to time, as my position requires. But I know of no such entrance into my own. It would seem quite dangerous."

"Commander Slynt, I have several chores for you, small and large."

"Your Grace!" the jowly man snorted promptly. "At your command!"

"First, you are to order the entire City Watch to find and arrest all of Varys' little birds."

"Your Grace?" the butcher's son asked with some confusion.

"I've learned that Varys here, through a friend in Pentos, has been shipping in urchins who have been taught to read. They are his spies. His little birds. The disgusting thing is they have all had their tongues cut out. So that is what the gold cloaks are to search for."

"Robert, really?" Renly exclaimed.

"He had his own cock chopped off, so why not others' tongues," Littlefinger rationalized.

"It is true," I growled. "And warn your men, if any of them start showing up with children's whose mouths are raw and bloody from just having their tongues ripped out; I'll ship them to the Wall!"

Slynt, can't remember his first name, nodded vigorously.

"Next, send a dozen men with sledge hammers. Demolish the walls and floors in Varys modest chamber. I want that secret entrance found. I want all the secret tunnels in this damned keep found and mapped. No more spying."

"Yes, your Grace. Anything else, your Grace?"

"Send for Ser Ilyn. There's work for him here."


	4. Part 3 - Of little birds and littler men

Ser Barristan stood careful watch beside the condemned; even twice muttering quiet warnings as Varys gave hint of shifting his body in ways the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard deemed unacceptable.

Littlefinger made a joyous, biting quip or two at the Eunuch about his approaching doom until I opened my mouth to growl, "Lord Baelish, shut up."

"Happily, your Grace. However, if we are worried about being under observation by little birds; the Small Council standing around with our mouths shut is extremely loud behavior."

Renly laughed. "Lord Mockingbird has you there, Robert. What might we talk about then?"

"My true reason for returning," I admitted.

"Embarrassing Ser Jaime and whittling the Small Council even smaller weren't sufficient? Tell us?" Renly prompted with an accompanying snicker.

Separation of Duties. Least Privilege. Need to Know.

I looked past the inner circle to the outer circle of gathered men. I saw that two white cloaks had joined them at some point. One looked positively scary. The eyes. "Ser Mandon? Come forth." The natural born looking killer started moving forward. Correct guess.

"Your Grace?"

"Take Maester Pycelle back to his quarters along with ten clever guards. He may commence packing his things. But never leave him alone, even to relieve himself. He's to be put on a boat for Oldtown tomorrow. A trusted boat. Captain and crew. Understood?"

"Yes, your Grace." The automaton killer turned toward the former, soon-to-be former(?), Grand Maester and gestured haughtily.

"Goodbye, Pycelle. For your sake, may we never meet again." I wondered if I'd spoken those words with appropriate Robert style unhappy, threatening gruffness.

"Your Grace. May you rule wisely," the old man chirped with what pluck remained in his spirit, clearly indicating by tone that he did not think that outcome likely. With what dignity he could project, the edifice of the Red Keep, having served at least three kings – maybe more, plodded off.

"I wouldn't mind taking that serving girl of his into my service, your Grace," Littlefinger announced. "Anyone who can keep that randy old goat satisfied bears investigating."

I shook my sweating head in the negative. "Maester ….?" I called out, pointing at the younger man with chain links who'd shown up with Pycelle.

"Zelladune, your Grace."

Robert probably met him a hundred times. Why were my body's memories not readily available as they conveniently were in so many of the self-insert stories I had read. "The Rookery and all its servants are yours until the Citadel sends a new Grand Maester. After I head back North, interview every one of them. When I return I expect to find a long list of things Pycelle hid from me, and shouldn't have."

"As you command, your Grace."

"Right. Now before we get on to what brought me back, there will very soon be an opening in the Small Council for a new Master of Whisperers? Any suggestions? Varys, would you care to offer one final service to the crown?" I mocked.

The Eunuch provided only a deadly smile.

"Ser Barristan?"

"I could not begin to propose a name, your Grace?" the Bold declared stiffly; spying and secrets beneath his dignity. Honorable fool.

"Lord Baelish?"

"I've found the gold cloak captain Allar Deem to have a proper nose for rooting through the streets of King's Landing."

I think I remembered that name. Banished along with Slynt by Tyrion to the Night's Watch. "Would Commander Slynt agree with your assessment?"

"Most likely."

"Then I'll keep his name under consideration." … for death.

"Ser Jaime?"

"I am not a member of the Small Council," he said uneasily, speaking for the first time since I had outed his difficult moral choice.

"And if that mattered to me, I wouldn't have asked you, Ser. Answer the damned question," I bullied.

"My Aunt Genna has some weaselly Frey goodbrothers and nephews. One of them would likely suffice."

Interesting thought. I was fond of Stevron in my fanfics. "Your Uncle?"

"Gods no," both Jaime and Tyrion burst out.

The joint vociferous condemnation was enough to pull me a bit out of my funk, and I lifted and shifted my moist giant noggin to look at the brothers.

"You might as well then make Aunt Genna your Mistress of Whisperers; twice the brains and thrice the balls as Ser Emmon," Tyrion stated baldly. Then, "She'd do well at it, though," he followed with respectful honesty.

Most likely. "And you, Tyrion?" I prodded.

"About the same brains, but Aunt Genna has bigger balls than me," he said, flashing a devilish grin under those dancing, mismatched eyes of his.

I laughed. Most within hearing distance laughed. When the chuckling died down, "Renly?"

"Someone old and cagey, but trustworthy. Say Celtigar of Claw Isle or Ser Cortnay Penrose or cousin Eldon Estermont, as I suppose Grandfather Estermont is too old and the cagey might be heading towards dotard-hood, alas."

"Ah, justice," I murmured. Ser Ilyn had at last arrived. Not Hound level scary in appearance, but high up on the ugly and mean scale. So who else could it be?

"Varys, you have committed crimes against the crown and the throne; and been found guilty. Any last words?"

I so so so desperately wanted to tip my hand to the Spider. To clue him in to what I knew. To see if he would drop any hints. There was still much that was only conjecture, well agreed upon conjecture at the ASOIAF chat boards and web sites I frequented. But George was an ornery bastard, likely put off by group think, so who knew the truth of these theories? Here, only Varys. Dany, FAegon, the Golden Company, BlackFyre pretenders … what was his end game?

The Eunuch smirked, saying nothing.

Brave prick … less. I swallowed some more wine. A head was about to fall. I'd probably puke again. More wine.

"Would you care to kneel? Or shall we try Ser Ilyn's skill with you standing?"

"I am through kneeling to the likes of you, Robert Baratheon."

Well if that was the way he wanted it, who was I to judge? "Step aside, Ser Barristan." Others shifted away as well, not wanting any expected gore to accidentally add to their dry cleaning bills.

The long executioner's blade swept out of the scabbard with a very cliché "tink" of metal on hard leather. Ilyn Payne smiled gruesomely as he started stepping closer.

I examined my feet. The heat and the flies and the dirt had done wonders reducing the obvious remnants of my stomach to a few chunks. Would I add to it?

Such a long wait. Only seconds actually.

Swoosh.

Thipit!

One small thud.

Followed quickly by a louder thud.

I looked up, willing myself to gaze past the exsanguinating corpse. The head had luckily bounced away from me. What crimson elephant, maybe I should go with a pink dragon metaphor, in the Red Keep's courtyard? I don't see anything?

I stood up. Surprising myself. "What brought me back? Now I'll tell you. The Ironborn. Balon Greyjoy is stupidly fitting out the Iron Fleet again."

"That's madness, you crushed him ten years ago," Renly declared hotly. His face showed surprise at my announcement.

"Varys said … Is this news trustworthy?" Littlefinger queried skeptically.

"No such messages have come to the Rookery that I've seen," Maester … Zelazny(?) intoned moderately. I sucked at remembering names.

"Is it war, your Grace," Ser Barristan asked pointedly.

"No, net yet, my good Ser Barristan. Balon Greyjoy is an imbecile, but a dangerous one. He cares little that his heir is held hostage by Ned Stark, probably views young Theon as more a Greenlander now than an Ironborn." I paced, trying to keep my thoughts clear, avoiding the nasty, unmentionable things in the dirt. "However, I do not want to go to the expense and effort of gathering another fleet unless forced. An emissary from the Iron Throne will be sent to Pyke to convince House Greyjoy of the near error of his ways."

Renly laughed. "Stannis? I give them grey joy, kraken and stag, of each other."

"No. I will need my Master of Ships to begin preparing the Royal Fleet. If my emissary is to threaten the bloodthirsty saltwater sucking fool into backing down, he must have something to back up his threats. Ravens will fly tonight to Dragonstone, the Arbor, Oldtown, Highgarden, Seagard, and Lannisport. Intelligence on the Iron Fleet will be gathered, alerts prepared on the coasts, warships readied; and, eventually, battle plans made."

"Ser Jaime!" I looked straight at him, leaving the still warm lumps of flesh behind me.

"Yes, your Grace."

"I will need you to ride to Casterly Rock to work with your father as my royal deputy. Lannisport will be the primary base for any assault, should it come to it. You will send weekly reports back to Stannis on developments."

"And not as your emissary to Lord Greyjoy?" Littlefinger asked suggestively.

I turned to the oily speaker, ignoring anything in the far left forty-five percent of my vision. "Very perceptive, Lord Baelish. My emissary needs to be someone … more experienced in showing stubborn people … the benefits of … mutual cooperation."

"And someone less directly related to you, your Grace," he smirked.

Expendable, yes. I smiled by way of answer.

"As much as I am a noble and enjoy the respect of being your 'Master of Coin,' I do not think Balon Greyjoy will find simple 'Lord Baelish' terribly noteworthy … for an emissary, your Grace."

Was the little shit trying to back down from my obvious implication, or bargain for a better deal for himself? "I agree. We must elevate you to a man to be reckoned with, Lord Baelish." I looked over at Jaime Lannister. "Ser, who is the Warden of the East?"

"No one, your Grace," the blond demi-god stated firmly.

I blinked. Well, crap. He was supposed to be it. Ned was pissed at Robert in the books about it. Hmmn, Cersei must have worn Robert down about it during the long trip to Winterfell. "Well then problem solved." I turned back to Littlefinger. "You even come from the Vale. So how convenient."

"As lord of a holdfast no bigger than my cock, with a flock of sheep as my men-at-arms, dung as their weapons, and my decrepit nanny as my knight. Quite impressive. The Lords of the Vale will surely look at me as their equal in no time."

"Spare me your sarcasm, Baelish," I thundered. "Succeed and you will be amply rewarded in lands and titles. Or you can slink back to the Fingers tonight."

Littlefinger bowed with a broad shit eating smile in acquiescence.

The smile was so wide and infuriating, it blocked my vision and my feelings, all except for my hate. Die. Just piss off Greyjoy and be decent enough to die for me. "You will ride out to Lannisport in the morning with Ser Jaime and an escort. In the meantime, gather your accounts. I will not let this already reduced Small Council function without a Master of Coin. Tyrion, I have a job for you."


	5. Part 4 - Freres Lions et Cerfs

"Read that back to me," I grunted, pushing the parchment across the makeshift table with a shaky hand; so bloody tired ... and overwhelmed.

The scribe cleared his throat. "Lord Redwyne, The Iron Throne has received signs that Balon Greyjoy might be refitting the Iron Fleet. Prudence requires that I inform your lordship of this possibility. And that I request you see quietly to the readiness of your own warships. Further, should any of your returning merchant captains bear interesting tidings from the Iron Isles, share them with all due speed to my Small Council. Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"That will do. Make similar copies of that message for Lord Mallister and Lord Hightower, then come back for my signet." I'd already written and sealed the most important bits by myself. Legibility be damned. Trust no one. Especially underpaid flunkies.

"Immediately, your Grace, " the slight, paunched, balding, middle aged man – a facsimile of sorts of my true self – gave a bow, turned away, and then quickly gave another bow having spied someone of higher standing in the doorway to the ad hoc working chamber.

" _Prudence_ , your Grace? Are you still feeling ill? Hit your head?"

"Ah, Tyrion. Ser Jaime. Come in."

"Not the sort of word typically associated with the Demon of the Trident," the little man continued drolly.

No, most likely not. "Take a seat. Both of you."

"Love what you have done with Jon Arryn's bedchamber. But it is a bit draftier than I remember," Jaime smirked, looking purposefully over at the fireplace. One side of it was smashed in, broken stone littering the hearth that Summer's heat required no flame for. Tyrion walked over to peer into the darkness.

"He once told me there was a secret entrance here. Didn't take much thought to figure out where once I set my mind to it. Doubt a man of his years used it much," I 'explained.'

"Simply climbing the stairs is work enough," Tyrion granted.

I snorted in agreement. Stairmaster session one. Winner by unanimous decision: Stairmaster.

"Where does it lead?" the blonde demi-god asked, his tone feigning an indifference he didn't quite feel. Or at least so I guessed based on three days firsthand experience with him and hundreds of pages of words.

"Snakes past the outer alcoves then straight down."

"Who's down there?" a trivial sounding professional query.

"Ser Arys and a score of guards." Aside from Barristan, Arys was the only one of the Kingsguard I dared trust. "He'll send someone up if they run into any 'little birds' or stumble across the gold cloaks spreading out from Varys' apartment. Oh, are those poxy twin sons of Lord Paxter in King's Landing?"

Both men shook their heads' no.

Damn, must have come for the Hand's Tourney then. Probably visiting their cousins in Highgarden right now, or something. "Hmmn, thought I remembered hearing they were around. Too bad. Could have shown Orange Head how serious I am with my message by shipping one of 'em back to him. Oh well." I scratched my beard. What next? "So, are you ready to leave in the morning, Ser Jaime?" I simply blurted out.

Jaime Lannister looked at me. Staring really. Searching? Finally, after the insulting pause, "Of course."

"Not that that is why you called us both up here, is it, your Grace?" Tyrion added amiably.

My hand twitched. Not from the shakes. It felt like grabbing something … hard … and flinging it. "No. Its Littlefinger. I don't trust the little … shit."

"That he won't deal with Greyjoy?" Jaime submitted with boredom.

"I worry that he won't even make it to Lannisport, let alone Pyke."

Interest might have begun to shine in the Lannister brothers' eyes at that. "What are you suggesting?" he asked with an air of curiosity.

"Petyr Baelish is only interested in helping Petyr Baelish. The rest of us are just pieces on his Cyvasse board to be used in helping him reach his goals, whatever in SevenHells they are" I declared bitterly.

Tyrion laughed with glee and clapped his hands. "By the Seven, who are you and what have you done with Robert Baratheon?"

Fuck. Anger surged through me. Too god damned obvious. My clenched hand smashed down on the table. CRACK! "Shut up!" I roared. Followed by, "Get me some wine!"

Jaime looked utterly cool and emotionless. I suspected this was him at his most dangerous.

Tyrion hopped up and waddled off to rummage through Jon Arryn's cabinets. "This should do," he murmured and came back with a decanter of something.

I snatched it, knocked off the lid, and tilted my head back. Sour. Incredibly sour. I hacked. "Dornish red, you prick," I swore and coughed and laughed all at once.

"Was it?" the little man asked innocently.

I laughed some more. The blonde demi-god began to smirk again at my discomfort, the prick. "Littlefinger. Take all the red cloaks in King's Landing with you, Ser Jaime. Baelish knows I'm sending him into a trap. Never should have announced I was replacing him with Tyrion on the Small Council. Too obvious. He's clever and he's dangerous. Who knows what he might try to arrange."

The Young Lion smiled with arrogant disdain. "I believe I can handle the Mockingbird."

"If he didn't arrive alive at Lannisport, I would not be disappointed," I agreed. "In which case, I would want your Uncle Kevan to go deal with Balon fucking Greyjoy in the little shit's stead."

The brothers couldn't help but share a quick look at my implied approval of outright murder.

"Nevertheless," I growled. "You are still to take all the red cloaks with you. And under explicit orders that no matter what happens to you, Ser Jaime; they are to accept no orders from Baelish and will deliver him to Lannisport. Understood?" I humphed in my new deep, imposing base voice.

Jaime smiled once. "Very."

"If he does make it hale to Lannisport, make sure he gets on a ship with a captain loyal to your father. I want to make sure the oily bastard actually gets to Pyke. Maybe suggest to Baelish he play the 'Rains of Castamere' for Balon." I snorted in self-amusement. "See what the Drowned God makes of rain."

"And the Master of Coin's work here?" Tyrion posed. "I am to examine it closely? Prudently? For irregularities?"

My turn to smile, as well as take another long draught of the piss poor wine. "Amongst other things, Lord Tyrion." And I held up the decanter to him in salute at his intuitiveness.

"Oh, I like the sound of that. I am feeling taller already."

His older brother chuckled.

"Investigate his private business interests as well. I fear they are so intertwined with his role on the Small Council it will be near impossible to discover where one ends and the other begins."

The little man nodded his head, mismatched eyes dancing with ideas and possibilities. "Our Petyr has rather a lot of friends. Might I ask that a score of red cloaks be left behind to secure my small person?"

"Done," I agreed. He was too smart not to know that even with him joining the Small Council, the removal of the Red Cloaks from the city would be rightly viewed as a reduction of Lannister influence at court. "Might I suggest that your first task be to find out who in the City Watch is on his payroll."

"Slynt," Jaime spat disgustedly.

"Allar Deem," Tyrion chuckled.

"And either co-opt them with your own coin or have Renly, as Master of Laws, remove them. I'll let my brother know this later tonight when I see him." Neither Lannister so much as blinked at mention of my scheduled meeting with Renly. Everyone thought they knew everyone else's business. "I expect you to have discovered much when I return in four or five months, Tyrion."

He grinned happily and rubbed his hands together expectantly. "I do too, your Grace."

The question would be what percentage of it would he pass along to me. I picked up a sealed parchment and extended to the older brother. "And this is a message for your Lord Father. Longer and more detailed than the raven's note I'm sending him tonight."

* * *

"Today was almost as much fun as an excellent joust. Certainly a melee. Too bad poor Stannis wasn't here to witness it. I think even _he_ might have been happy. The Spider crushed. The Mockingbird fled. You acting all … kingly."

I put down the near empty decanter. The warmth in my belly extended pleasantly through my whole being. I instantly did not like this smug prick, for whom everything had been handed to on a gold platter. "Oh shut up before I punch your face in, Renly," I said in a mostly conversational tone. Don't make me lose my mood. HULK SMASH!

"What?" he replied with a hint of surprise and hurt whining.

I wanted to laugh at the face he made. Petulant child. "Stannis isn't here for you to win any … tilts against in … your verbal jousts. Lay off for … Seven's sake."

"Very well," he said resignedly. Woe is me. "Still an enjoyable day. Though, did you have to add Tyrion Lannister to the Small Council?"

He really didn't like the Lannister influence, did he? "You're lucky I didn't fucking make him Hand," I warned. Then withdrew the stick and offered the carrot. "You'll be happy to know I am sending all but twenty of the red cloaks off with Ser Jaime to Lannisport."

He perked up at that, smiling that easy smile I always had resented in others; social winners. Did Robert have that easy smile too? Renly was supposedly quite like a younger version of Robert. I'd have to check in a mirror when I had a chance.

"But less happy cause you're to give him any help he requires in cleaning up all of Littlefinger's messes. And I do mean _all_."

"Such as?"

"Such as everyone he's bribed."

Renly laughed. "That would be everyone. Myself too, come to think of it."

"Let's start with the Gold Cloaks. I want Slynt gone. Find him an empty lordship and holdfast in the Stormlands. Something he couldn't refuse."

"Robert …"

CRACK! The desk vibrated from my fist. HULK SMASH! "Do it!"

Sigh. "Very well."

"And make Bywater the next Commander."

"Ironhand? The Captain of the Mudgate?" A shrug. "He'll do. Hardly takes a bribe, I hear." A shrewd look came over his handsome, manly face. "You really are changing things around, Robert. You haven't changed your mind about Ned Stark becoming Hand, have you?"

You have NO idea. HULK SMASH! "Probably not. I do need as many men I can trust around me." The mix of truth and lie sounding convincing to my ear.

Eyes narrowed, staring hard into me. "What are you up to, Robert?"

I ignored him, like any good big brother. "Before I forget. Put a call out to your banner lords. I want a hundred knights and a thousand men-at-arms from the Stormlands here to greet me when I return from the North."

His own question immediately forgotten as I easily gave him something he must have wanted for a long time, Renly leaned forward, quite interested to see where I took things next. "And for the new Master of Whisperers?" he prodded.

"I had thought of Stannis' man, Ser Davos; a man of honor who knows his way around the seedier places in Westeros." Mild disappointed flirted over that face at the mention of the Onion Knight. "But I think your Loras will be happy. I am sending a raven asking his grandmother to join the Small Council."

My 'brother' laughed in delight. "To think of the burrs the Queen of Thorns will stick in Stannis."

You really, really don't like Stannis, do you? Would I? I shrugged, it wouldn't matter for three months or more at least. And if the Mannnis really did turn out to be an utter pain in my ass ... HULK SMASH!

"If Lady Olenna accepts and arrives here before I return; inform her, that in addition to the Greyjoys, I am most interested in her discovering what she can about a powerful Pentos merchant named Illyrio – he's tied up with Varys somehow."

So many other things to have a loyal, smart spy chief look into: Dany in the Far East, Doran Martell, FAegon, the Golden Company, Euron Greyjoy, Melisandre … Jaqen. Shit, how could I have forgotten? Hulk smash?

"Robert. Robert. You look like you've seen our parents' ghosts"


	6. Part 5 - The Thorn Whisperer

"The Baratheons have always had some queer notions; comes from their Targaryen blood, no doubt. Still," Olenna Tyrell nee Redwyne said with a wisp of a smile on her mouth; reading again the intriguing message addressed to her.

"Mother, you cannot possible consider accepting this … this … insult!"

"Insult? Tosh. This is the most interesting thought to cross that oaf of a king's mind since his little brain decided to take Delena Florent's maidenhead on Lord Stannis' wedding bed. Now stop pacing, you are driving me mad," she snapped.

His bulky body pulled up to a halt in front of her writing desk. "Mother," her son whined. "There hasn't been a woman on the Small Council since King Daeron's day."

Olenna was surprised her son Mace could recall that. Not that she would show that surprise or congratulate him for it; even a blind squirrel finds the occasional acorn. "His queen was a Martell. Giving women a silver coin of worth and the right to rule is all the Dornish have ever been good for."

"Ohh, now you are sounding like Rhaenyra Targaryen," he complained.

"And if I had a dragon, first thing I would do is scorch your witless brain, Mace," she threatened. "No better than scrambled eggs they are. What do you do with them?"

"Mother," he replied with that well practiced look of reproachful hurt.

Her gaze shifted to the steely one and a half eye squint that unnerved him so.

"But the Master, or should I say, Mistress of Whisperers. A position renowned for merchants, thieves, smugglers, sorcerers, and … and eunuchs," he spat with haughty disrespect.

"At least I won't be such a change from Varys. I haven't a cock either."

"Mootherrrrr."

"Listen here, Mace. Surprising, nay, unique events are unfolding. You did understand the import of the Baratheon's note to you, didn't you?"

"I can read, Mother." He jiggled his own raven message from King's Landing as if that proved his point. "What of it? Paxter, old man Leyton, and the Shield Islands will protect the Reach," her son, _her son(!)_ , declared with blithe confidence.

To think she gave birth to him. Sigh. "Jon Arryn dead not yet a fortnight. His sworn man kicked off the Small Council, and don't think it otherwise, regardless of the mission to Pyke he has been sent on; and to be replaced by the Lannister Imp? Pycelle gone? Aerys' now dead Master of Whisperers a possible BlackFyre supporter? And already rumor reaches King deaf, dumb, and blind, as he runs off to Winterfell to make his friend Stark the next Hand, of possible Iron born mischief?"

Mace disappointingly looked at her blankly. How does he know to even breath? She glared at him, waiting.

"Yes?" her overlarge child at last responded; clearly noting that he was being prompted, but definitely not seeing the point.

"Institutions and alliances are crumbling before your eyes. Influence and power over the Iron Throne is up for grabs. The Baratheon is starting off with a nearly clean Cyvasse board. What will Eddard Stark do as Hand? What will Tywin Lannister do? What will Doran Martell do? Are you not in the least interested by the possibilities?"

Mace rubbed his beard with what passed for thoughtfulness. "The king is still married to _her_ ," he finally grumbled. "Those yellow haired sprogs of hers will inherit the throne. What can we do?" he shrugged fatefully.

"We won't be able to do much if we just sit on our fatheaded arses here in Highgarden. With me on the Small Council, we can at least keep an eye on the Lannisters." Frustration boiled up inside her small frame, threatening to erupt. "Why do I bother to try and explain. I am accepting the Baratheon's offer."

Meaty hands plopped down on the desk and his plump mass loomed over her. "I forbid …"

She stabbed her son with a quill, breaking off the point in his flesh.

He jerked the wounded hand back with a gasp. Then pulled his entire body backwards from the desk for fear she would strike the other too.

"Mace, think of it as a belated nameday present between us."

He didn't look up from picking out the hard keratin. "Why?" he grunted.

"You won't be around to bother me and I won't be around Highgarden to bother you," she pointed out.

Now he looked up. "No." He smiled. "No, you won't."

"Now run along. And be a dear; send the steward."

She heard the heavy trod of his leave taking even through the thick Myrish carpet as she reached for another quill, the inkpot – lucky that hadn't been thrown at him, and several sheets of vellum. She hadn't felt such excitement coursing through her dull, old veins in years ... in decades.

She took a deep breath, anticipating the scents. So many _roses_ to tend. Well established lines to cross breed for new colors and aromas. Others to trim back or ruthlessly cull. Tiny buds, long ignored, to nurture to full bloom. New varieties to experiment with. Deadly aphids to hide among the thorns, waiting to strike at any unwanted.

And this dangerous merchant Illyrio that the Baratheon had warned of. How deep in the soil did those tendrils root? Her greenhand must cultivate _roses_ farther afield than just Westeros' gardens it appeared. But first, allies for the Game of Thrones; the Conclave must need elect a new Grand Maester. Olenna smiled like a raptor.

" _Archmaester Perestan, a most unusual book from Norvos has recently made its way into my library. I can barely make heads or tails of the ancient Andal script it uses. Perhaps …_ "

* * *

Thin fingers gently rubbed a pale green leaf on the stem of the golden rose and then moved on to do the same to another ... and to another; carefully avoiding the sharp, thick thorns guarding over the flower. The hands were firm, knowing; though splotched with age.

Olenna Redwyne had claimed this garden atop the old keep's roof the morning before she married that agreeable dunce Luthor. That had not been her first visit to Highgarden. At age nine her father had brought her here so the bans could be read of her formal engagement to that sword-swallower Prince Daeron. Not that he, at age nine as well, likely had any clue at the time of his particular nature.

The Arbor and Castle Arbor, all she had really known to that point in her life, were undoubtedly beautiful. Vineyards and groves and old stone work and colorful floors. But this garden, originally designed by Garth the Gardener himself, perched high with a view out over all three walls of Highgarden and out over the meandering Mander. Ahh, this was mythical.

When the emissary of House Tyrell had sailed over Redwyne Straights bearing the proposal her father yearned for, this had been the only thing she had demanded. Fifty years had passed since she claimed ownership. A husband passed. Seven children born. Three still alive. She moved on to another flower, caressing it. Fourteen grandchildren born. Nine still alive. Life and death, Summer and Winter this garden had born witness to.

"Grandmother, what are you doing?" a young woman's voice called out softly.

"Saying goodbye to my babies, Margaery," she answered a tad whistfully.

"You'll return to visit us, surely?"

Sixteen, beautiful, full of life, of a great family, beloved by the Maiden. She knew nothing. "Fool girl, I am a tough old crone, but old crone I am. I might fall down the stairs tomorrow morning and break my neck. Or return in five years having served the Seven Kingdoms faithfully to live out my dotage here. I am at the end of my journey and you at the start of yours, remember that," she snapped.

A pair of big tears welled up in those large puppy dog eyes. The face crumpled in sadness. A pained gasp. Then suddenly tiny, stooped Olenna was in the arms of her favorite granddaughter. "I won't ever see you again?" Margaery sniffled.

"Perhaps not," Olenna admitted. A painful truth, but life was full of them. No point in hiding.

"Nooo," she moaned softly, body trembling slightly.

The Queen of Thorns laid reassuring old hands on her granddaughter.

"Take me with you," the girl wheezed.

Take you with me? Foolish … or? "Stop crying," she chided lightly. "You are ruining my dress."

"I wouldn't be any trouble. I promise," she whispered a little too sweetly.

Ha!

"The throne is in danger. And King's Landing a harsh place. The Red Keep doubly so."

The crying eased off. "Surely you are taking a strong guard, grandmother. And Loras is there. He could protect me."

"Yes, your brother is very good at knocking other knights over with sticks and other pointy things." She felt, rather than saw, Margaery begin to smile. Foolish girl, but not quite so foolish as first glance. A tiny spider amongst the flowers; trying to capture me in her web. Time to end this. "Was this your idea or your father's?"

"What idea?" oh so innocently.

Olenna stroked the thick lightly curling brown hair that acted as a sunshade over her head. "Now, child, the truth," she demanded firmly and not unkindly.

"M-m-mother," Margaery gasped.

Sigh. "For Renly?"

She felt the nod in agreement.

"Your mother is as great a mummer's arse as your father," she proclaimed in exasperation. "This is not how Great Houses make matches."

"But Garlan loves Leony."

"And I grew quite fond of your grandfather ... eventually." Sigh. "Do you love Renly. No, no. Step back. I want to look at your face when you answer."

Her granddaughter unhanded her. The girl bit her lip. Uncertainty. "I could grow to love him," she suggested.

Ahh, a pity. That way would lead to disaster, one too many loves. "He certainly dresses pretty, smiles pretty, says pretty things, and smells pretty because he knows how to bathe. Very clean, Renly; never stooping to do a lick of work that would dirty his lordly hands. And near as gallant a knight as Loras, but twice or thrice as full of himself."

"He is kind and gently and comely, grandmother."

"Tosh on comely. What is comely worth?"

Margaery looked at the ground in disappointment, realizing she had stepped into it. "Less than a mummer's fart," she mumbled.

"Quite right. Quite right. Now don't look so glum, dear."

Her granddaughter raised one eyebrow suspiciously.

"The Baratheon and his lioness won't return to King's Landing for many months. Give me time to plant my garden and see what interesting flowers sprout up. Then, if all is right, I shall call for you."

"Truly?"

"Only if all is right and you don't encourage your father and mother with any untoward ideas." She squinted hard to emphasized her seriousness. And then, "I will hear if you are mischievous."

The lovely brown eyes lightened. "Willas," she giggled. "I promise I shall be on my best behavior grandmother."

"I doubt that." Or I am as great a fool as Butterbumps. "Now off with you. I leave on the morrow I still have my goodbyes to finish."

* * *

The morning mist still rose up off the Mander. As Summer followed Winter, so would the sun burn off the fog. "Thank you, Garlan," she said, accepting his hand to step down from the carriage on to the edge of the dock.

He smiled at her.

"You and Willas keep an eye on things for me. Only the _Crone_ knows what idiocy that oaf of a father of yours will get into," she complained.

"You gave birth to him, grandmother" the young knight snickered.

"Do not remind me of that shame."

He laughed. "But then Willas, Loras, Margaery, and I wouldn't have been born," he teased.

"You are all dears, I admit. I wonder though ..."

"And Uncles Gormon, Garth, or Moryn would have inherited from grandfather."

Olenna actually paused and shuddered at the idea of it. "Gods save Highgarden and the Reach then."

"And the Gods help you in King's Landing, grandmother."

"I shall call on them if I have need."

"Which you won't."

"Which I won't," Olenna agreed.

The pair laughed.

"And now I say goodbye."

She sighed. Another goodbye. "Give me a kiss," she commanded. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead, as if she was the child. "Insolent wretch," she snapped in fake anger and slapped his cheek.

"Lord Lorent shall have a carriage awaiting you at Bitterbridge."

"Yes, of course. And mounts."

"And mounts for your escort," he agreed.

"You have everything," he nagged.

This time she slapped his hand. "You will receive the first raven if I do not."

"Erryk. Arryk. Help my lady grandmother down into the galley."

She glared down at Left and Right, freezing them in place. "I was born on a boat. I know what I am doing."

"And I don't want you to die on a boat."

"Only the _Stranger_ knows for sure, Garlan. Only the _Stranger_."


	7. Part 6 - The Mannis Chooses

The broad shouldered, hard faced man sat in the sole chair of the great round room built of thick, black volcanic stone – the same stone used to construct the whole of the Stone Drum. He sat alone through preference. Voices however, sometimes quiet, sometime loud, had gathered outside the chamber's door all morning; impinging on the intent of his command for solitude, but not breaking the letter of it.

Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, had not remained seated all that time. Since the grey and mist and salt filled dawn, when he first cloistered himself in preparation, he had every fifteen minutes or so walked by the southern facing of the four windows, and occasionally the westward one, in order to spy for the anticipated galley.

Three and a half days sailing from King's Landing to Dragonstone, barring good winds or ill seas. Today would be the day. 'More thin gruel and disappointment, assuredly,' he thought grimly.

When he wasn't pacing he sat and stared at the giant painted table, as was his frequent want in times of strong thought and memories. His gaze most often shifted between four places on the map hewn of wood: King's Landing, Storm's End, Casterly Rock, and Winterfell. They tormented him for the ignominies each uniquely represented.

What had he hoped to accomplish by coming to Dragonstone? The shame, the abominations, the rejections, the conspiracies … they lay out there: King's Landing, Storm's End, Casterly Rock, Winterfell. And death too, he supposed. He did not fear death. Only dishonor.

The wings of a large bird flew past the South window, capturing his attention; distracting him. He rose to go follow it. A moment's scan found the hawk soaring on the thermals rising from the island's fire and heat. The raptor's head cocked and pivoted, looking for prey. The birds mottling reminded him of his childhood bird: Proudwing.

That goshawk had never soared so high. Time and again the tamed beast of his hearth would refuse to fly above the treetops; making a fool of him in front of Robert and the nobles found at Storm's End. Weakwing they snubbed her. He had in the end let the bird go at great-uncle Ser Harbert's prodding.

Stannis could not resist his own impulse. He must see the raven note from Robert again. Angry at his weakness, he snatched the small scroll out of a pocket on his leather jerkin, crumpling it in the process. He ground his teeth, regained himself, and carefully unrolled it in order to gaze upon the now familiar words.

 _Brother, I have returned for only a day and much is now changed since you departed. Balon Greyjoy rebuilds the Iron Fleet. Ravens have flown with this warning to the Arbor, Oldtown, Lannisport, and Seagard. The Small Council shall have need of the Master of Ships soon. You will return to a changed council. Varys is executed for his Targaryen allegiance. Pycelle banished for incompetence. And Baelish sent as my envoy to Pyke. Tyrion Lannister is the new Master of Coin. And I will ask Lady Olenna Tyrell to be Mistress of Whisperers. I expect the Citadel to send Gormon Tyrell as the next Grand Maester. When I return from Winterfell we have much to discuss you and I. In the meantime, I send a White Cloak by boat baring deeper words between us. If my letter arrives unsealed, slay the messenger and believe nothing within. The word is Steffon._

No, Robert was the greater fool. No true born sons of his; only the illicit incestuous spawn of Cersei Lannister and Jaime the Kingslayer. And for helping to uncover that fact Lord Jon Arryn died. He refused to acknowledge who else might die from carrying this dangerous knowledge.

He stuffed the message back and looked out the window again. His keen eye spied what might have been a cloud on the horizon, but wasn't. A sail. He waited until the shape of the hull became visible as it rose high upon a swell. "Ha!" he barked humorlessly, recognizing her lines. She was the _Lady Lyanna_.

Stannis Baratheon returned to his seat to wait and stare; alone.

* * *

Knock. Knock. "My lord?"

Reflexively he checked that the crossbow sitting out of sight beside his chair remained cocked. Why wouldn't it. Nevertheless prudence demanded caution. Satisfied, he commanded, "Enter."

The door swung open and his castellan stood there to announce loudly, "Ser Mandon of the Kingsguard, my lord."

"Allow him in, Ser Axell. And then close the door." One hand slid off the chair arm to grasp the butt of the crossbow.

"As you wish, my lord."

The Kingsguard stepped through, sketched a bow, murmured "my lord," and waited for the door to close.

Ser Mandon did his duty better than most of his brethren as far as Stannis was concerned; though that did not say much either given the sorry state of the White Cloaks. The cold eyes and empty expression now facing him mattered little to Stannis. Still, he kept a wary watch on what the knight did with his hands. "You have a message for me from the King," he prompted.

"I do, my lord," Ser Mandon agreed.

"Then place it on the table."

Ser Mandon walked forward to the Shield Islands and set a packet down on Bitterbridge. The seal of the stag appeared valid and the wax unbroken over the fold.

Releasing the butt, Stannis came off his chair to step down into Blackwater Bay. He leaned forward and picked up his brother's missif. "Is the King expecting a response?"

"His Grace made no mention of one, my lord."

"And he has resumed his journey to Winterfell?"

"That was still his intention last I knew, my lord."

"Leave me, Ser." The knight bowed again and withdrew backward in silence. As soon as the door to the Chamber of the Painted Table opened, a volume of noise arose from outside. They each wrongly expected to provide immediate council. "Silence!" he commanded with a sea deck roar. The door shut.

He broke open the wax seal. This was not in the neat handwriting of some careful scribe. The words were laid sloppy and uneven upon the parchment, barely legible as Robert's own hand; probably drunk when he wrote it. Those indicators flashed through his brain in an instant as he unfolded and sat back in the sole seat.

 _The word is Steffon._

So it was. He refused to allow the obvious ploy at sentiment to influence him.

 _Brother, let me be blunt. I have wronged you for many years._

What? Stannis ground his teeth. Here? Now he wishes to … to? Ire rose in his heart at finally receiving a little notice of that which he had so long desired.

 _But like milk spilled from a cow, there is no way to get it back into the udder. However, I will make amends as best I can. First, I will not return from Winterfell with Ned. He will remain in the North for reasons I will discuss more later. When I do return, I will name you as my Hand._

Stannis hand almost quivered in disbelief. Not Eddard Stark? The man Robert actually loved like a brother. Not Hand of the King? But himself?

 _For politics sake, say nothing of this when you return to King's Landing until my own return and we set the Small Council a right together._

Or so you can name another in my stead as Hand, he thought suspiciously. Too much disappointment in his brother to hold out trust Robert would stay true to his word.

 _In the meantime, think of who shall be your replacement as Master of Ships. And more importantly, think of who should be the next Master of Laws. It is high time that Renly got his useless arse back to Storm's End. I thought perhaps Ser Brynden Tully might make a good candidate, but the final decisions shall be yours. You know more of who would perform the duty well than I do, since I have so far whored and drunk away my days as king._

Storm's End. Robert would have to mention that shame, that betrayal. Who had eaten rats in order to hold Storm's End? By rights it should be mine, not Renly's. The old bitterness would not dissipate, even at the happy news of the youngest brother planned spurning from court or of the eldest brother now valuing his opinion.

 _As for when you should return, sooner is better than later. You are needed to set the Royal Fleet to readiness and coordinate with the great sea lords should the worst come to pass with Balon Greyjoy. Unfortunately, I cannot alleviate all your concerns, Stannis; but I do know what drove you to Dragonstone._

Do you, Robert? Do you, cuckold? Duty shirker!

 _Jon was murdered, but not by those whom you believe and fear might strike out at you next. The cause was not due to a book or the inquiries you two made on the Street of Steel or in a brothel; though your suspicions there are accurate. The source was someone much closer to Jon. Regrettably that bird has flown to a high perch._

Thin lips pinched tighter. He suspects Lady Lyssa and not the Lannisters? But he does know he has been made a cuckold and in the worst way by the double sin of incest. And he has done nothing?! Nothing!?

 _As for me, I am dishonored before the Seven. Shame fills my soul as I write these words. My fury rages. I wish to break a thousand skulls with my warhammer. But as Protector of the Realm, I cannot allow my wounded pride to drag the Seven Kingdoms into a devastating civil war; which assuredly it would were I to give vent to my madness. Justice must wait a time, but justice I shall have. And when it comes it shall be served brutally._

Stannis teeth ground in frustration, both happy and unhappy that Robert would demonstrate such unusual restraint – a Kingly restraint – for the good of the realm. An unprepared war with the Westerlands and the Vale would be terrible. Tywin Lannister might make common cause with Balon Greyjoy. While the Reach and Dorne were unreliable at best. Hoster Tully in Riverrun grew old and sick and weak. And the North was too far to count on timely aide from.

 _I mentioned the North earlier. There are evil doings brewing in Westeros aside from the Ironborn, brother. To any south of the Neck, save you, I would not tell this. Night's Watch are disappearing on rangings and deserting in fear. A new King-Beyond-the-Wall has arisen. This Mancy Rayder intends to lead all the Wildlings South through the Wall, but not for women and pillage and lands. If that were so, I would leave it to the North alone to defeat them._

And rightly thus, the Starks are the Wardens of the North.

 _Rumor has reached me that something is driving them South. Be it Snarks or Grumkins or Wights or Others; I know not. But it leaves a sickening sense in my belly. Something odd and eldritch is going on in that Godsforsaken land. And this is why I feel safe in speaking as if folklore and tales from the Age of Heroes have come anew; I know you have a Red Priestess on Dragonstone. Melisandre by name._

Ah, so Robert has heard of the sorceress; an interesting lady who invokes loyalty or fear in seemingly equal amounts.

 _She believes that you are Azor Ahai reborn. I care not whether you believe it or not; nor if you even are or you are not. Melisandre is not like my drunk friend, the red priest Thoros. She has POWER. When she stares into the flames she does glimpse visions of what will or might happen. Send her and a suitable escort to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea at once, I command it. I must know what her flames can illuminate beyond the Wall._

Stannis found Robert's belief in the Lady Melisandre's skills unsettling. He had never made mention in King's Landing of his lady wife's pet priestess for the ridicule and scorn it would have engendered. Though he had no doubt that Varys and his little birds knew of her; he had never tried to hide the lady's presence. But Robert could never have seen her before. And seeing was the only way to glimpse the … yes … the power she exuded. Perhaps that sot Thoros had … had what?

 _When we meet face to face, brother, we shall have much to talk about. And I can begin to make amends for the many slights I have done you. Why this sudden change, you ask yourself? When our beloved parents died, I had the bastion of a foster father and a foster brother, neither of my blood but of my heart, to retreat to. And now my second father is dead too. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. Then, after Jon's death, I looked in a mirror, darkly, and did not like the childish face I saw staring back at me. I realized what I was known as by those who mattered most and I felt shame. So I decided it was time to become a man, and I am trying to put away my childish things._

What you are known as? An oaf, a drunk, who others love. He could not believe, he refused to belief, these words of Robert. Long dead things wobbled a moment deep inside him. Always so easy for Robert. Denied nothing. Stannis clenched his fists, twisting the parchment, in pain or anger; he knew not which through the numbness.

 _We shall never have an easy relationship, you and I, Stannis. Much as I will try to change my ways, I am still too much the loud, drunken Stag. Forgive me. Become my Hand. And for Seven's sake, before you return, do your duty and get Selyse with child. Right now you are my true heir. And after that, Renly, Gods help us and Westeros._

Stannis Baratheon sat alone in contemplation until the dark of the sky matched the dark of the walls of the Chamber of the Painted Table.

* * *

"I will do my duty," Stannis announced. "And return to King's Landing as my King commands me."

"Was the first message true?" his wife asked sharply.

"That and more," he rumbled.

"And your fears?" she pressed.

"Are only fears. I must hold to duty," he answered stiffly. Then, "The King shares many of my concerns."

"You are to be his Hand," Lady Melisandre announced.

"Truly?" "Truly" Selyse and her uncle Ser Axell echoed each other.

"When he returns from Winterfell, if my brother holds to his word," he said not bothering to hide his doubt.

"Praise R'hllor," his wife chanted. "Praise R'hllor," the castellan repeated.

"R'hllor is the source of all good. May the Lord of Light cast his light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terror," the Red Priestess continued with the familiar ritual incantation.

"You have a duty to perform as well, Lady Melisandre," Stannis informed her.

Her long copper hair bobbed as she nodded in acceptance of his command. "To the North," she agreed.

Stannis eyes narrowed in some surprise. "The Wall."

"Yes. This morning I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai and R'hllor only showed me snow. The Great Other lurks in the darkness beyond. May I serve you and our Lord well."

Stannis nodded in agreement, what more could a lord ask for than a faithful servant.

"And how might I aid my lord husband?" his wife asked.

"Where are you in your courses?" he asked bluntly.

Pale eyes pinched, stern mouth tightened, pulling down her hairy upper lip. "They ended five days ago, my lord," she answered with her usual harsh rasp.

"I have neglected my duties to you, my lady wife," he declared. "Ser Axell, make the Fury ready to depart in seven days," he commanded, causing his castellan to bow. "In the meantime, Selyse, I must … make amends," Stannis Baratheon bitterly acknowledged.


	8. Part 7 - Coming to Grips

It was easier not to think. Riding a horse helped avoid contemplation of life, death, Robert, and Westeros. Once almost comfortable with the new experience of being mounted, the almost soothing steady, miles eating gait of a horse had much the same numbing effect on my mind as a long car ride; a hundred miles passing with little to no memory of any of the specific traffic or scenery encountered.

And the lack of a radio or CD player didn't turn the journey horribly boring. One of the two score of my escort was always ready to sing some folk song at the simplest of hints. The rotation usually wasn't any more varied than a Top Forty station, so within a couple of days I had at least picked up the chorus for the more popular ones: " _The Bear! The Bear!_ " " _And I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!_ " " _In a cask of ale for a casket!_ "

Robert had a pleasant enough of a bass, far deeper and steadier than my former wobbly tenor-alto three note range. Too bad my memory was shit for remembering lyrics or entire passages of whatever. I could remember snatches of several scores of songs, but never the whole thing. Without a word processor, the Internet, and Youtube, _Stairway to Heaven_ Westeros style would have to wait till I had time to myself. Right, King, time to myself. LOL.

Ser Arys proved a most cordial companion for passing the time as well. I asked him many a question about the Reach, Old Oak, and his family. All topics he enjoyed expounding on in detail once he realized I was truly listening and apparently interested. Robert was said to have the talent of making friends out of enemies. If he hadn't bothered to pay much attention to his own Kingsguard, as by Arys' reaction I had to conclude, then how the lard ass pulled that reputation off was beyond me. Must be a knightly expectation thing I couldn't understand.

Long distance horse travel is slow time. So I tried to learn something personal about each of the escort over the next week. While I was an introvert and not generally prone to small talk, the very opposite of Robert, a little royal attention got all but the most diehard curmudgeons in the group to open up. And there weren't many curmudgeons to start, these men were where they were because they actively sought the notice of their King; and being a prick to a man who could shorten you on a whim by a head was not a high percentage play.

After a week's travel, not only did I know a fair amount more about Westeros, but also about the body I inhabited. The alcoholism remained excruciatingly tough to handle. Cold turkey was not the smart way to approach it. First, beer and wine were about the most sanitary things to drink. Second, I was under enough mental stress and anguish that throwing myself into the DTs was idiotic. Did I mention mortal danger? No? Well this is Westeros, so I guess it should be assumed. Moderate amounts of drink spread out over four or five times a day seemed to keep the worst of the cravings and demons at bay.

The overweight body stood up to the long hours in the saddle with surprising vigor. It wasn't the aerobic exercise Fat Rob needed, but it wasn't useless. Learning/relearning how to ride a horse taught me a lot about the muscle memory still lurking within the overweight flesh. I'd always thought Yoga was crap, but when I went Zen and emptied my mind as best I could, Robert instinctively knew mostly what to do physically. Like I said before, it was easier to not think. The scariest question was how well that Jedi mind trick on myself would work when time came to pick up the hammer. Hulk Smash?

At night, I went to bed early. My body might not have been truly exhausted, but mentally I was spent after pretending, probably quite poorly, to be who I was not. And invariably there would be an insinuating comment about whether I required any bed warmers. More than once I found a particularly bold wench already ensconced under the covers. Tempting though it was to Big Robert, I was still too confused for such activity. Likely I'd just have dissolved into a bubbling mess had I tried anything.

* * *

The far front of the column waggled a signal.

"Armed outriders approaching, your Grace," Ser Arys informed me.

I stood up in my stirrups, something I wouldn't have thought about trying ten days ago, to get a better look. Nothing wrong with Robert's vision. I enjoyed not having glasses or having to squint, first time in forty years. Four men, one of whom appeared to be carrying an upright lance, but no wind to show a banner. And a bigger cloud of dust a mile or so behind them.

"The van or the rear guard?" I murmured. "Well send someone to find out who it is," I ordered in a slightly louder voice.

Off two knights went at a canter, the Baratheon colors flying above their heads.

Soon enough, "The Queen." The oncoming banner at last revealed the Lannister Lion standing opposite the Baratheon Stag.

I girded my loins for battle: love, war, and Cersei.

* * *

"What in Seven Hells have you done, Robert!?" the lioness roared from where she stood on the top step of the emptied Wheelhouse. All the riders of her escort were at least a hundred yards away. Most even more. "The Children" were even farther off, their mother wanting to spare them the sight of a fight between their "parents". Like they hadn't seen THAT a thousand times already.

My tongue felt dry. I sketched a half bow, "You look lovely, Cersei."

Annoyance flashed across already angry emerald eyes.

"You could have told me you planned to wreck the Small Council. This is serious. I care not about the Eunuch and all his secrets. But Pycelle ..."

"Is an empty old windbag full of flatulence. War comes, Cersei. So I ruled, as a King should," I proclaimed proudly and loudly, feeling a complete fraud within my thin shell.

"War!?" she scoffed. "How do you hear about the Ironborn while on the Kingsroad? Tell me that, Robert. How?"

I pointed up between my eyebrows. "You get lines here when you yell." She didn't actually, but how was she to know. "Did I ever tell you that before, Cersei?"

Her fists clenched. Her already heated cheeks flushed pure scarlet. "You .." she shrieked, then found herself speechless from ire and exasperation.

I climbed off my horse. "There is much I haven't told you, Cersei."

"Why is Jaime gone to Casterly Rock?" she finally hissed as I walked towards her.

She knew a lot. I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't happy about it. I stopped right in front of her "For the same reason I made Tyrion Master of Coin. I need my best men where they will be most useful to the Realm. If the Ironborn attack, I need him to coordinate our response with your lord father."

"And if they don't attack!?"

"Then Tywin gets to spend a few months with his son." I shrugged. "Come down. There is much I would tell you."

"You are useless, Robert. There is nothing you could tell me that ... Aahhhhh," she shrieked in surprise.

Being six foot six and having the strength of a bear has its uses. I picked Cersei up by her upper, outer thighs. They felt good in my hands. And pulled her down to my chest, hands slipping up to cup that wonderful rump. She struggled. Fists beat futilely against me. Nails racked across my beard. I hoped she wouldn't kill me in my sleep.

My left hand sorrowfully released its grip in order to press her face into my neck. "I am sorry," I whispered into her ear. She stiffened in shock or surprise. Probably both. I again debated whether I should just snap her neck. No, I again decided. She smelled wonderfully. "I am sorry I am a disappointment as a husband, a father, a drunk, and a King, Cersei," I continued just as quietly, keeping the lecher bit out of it. I figured I had gone as far with admissions as I dared at the moment.

I set her down and stared into that beautiful, ugly face. "You are beautiful ... and strong." And oh so ugly inside. I gently stroked the side of her face with my thick fingers. God, she is ... I tingled all over. "And I bring the worst out in you. I am sorry," I repeated.

She slapped me. "How dare you." She quivered in place.

"You can slap me again," I said softly.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

"How dare you." Her voice quaked at the repeated accusation.

Were those tears developing? I held my enormous arms open for her. An invitation. I had to try, didn't I?

"Go to Seven Hells," she snapped, head suddenly tilting down, and her whole body turning away from me. Away she half stomped and half fled.

I swallowed in relief that the encounter hadn't gone any worse. The bile tasted bitter. I needed a drink.

* * *

"So why didn't you kill Grand Maester Pycelle too?" Joffrey asked, the bloodthirsty cunt.

"Who would the Citadel send to advise me if I took his head? Not that I wasn't tempted." Oops, probably shouldn't have admitted that.

The beautiful blond boy shrugged, obviously not caring; let alone bothering to think about the question.

"Don't worry, Joffrey." You little shit. "There are plenty of maesters around King's Landing to tutor you, whether we have a Grand Maester or not."

He frowned, his personal disappointment at that implication evident.

"And what punishment do you think your Uncle Jaime deserves?"

"Uncle Jaime?" He laughed. Ugly. "Why him, father?"

"He never told anyone of all the wildfire buried around the city. What if some of the containers had broken at some point. Thousands could have died," I explained patiently. Ok, I undoubtedly had some tone in my voice. I was never the most patient of parents.

"They are just smallfolk."

I so so so want to smack you. "Idiot," I did burst out. "You think Mad Aerys didn't order the Pyromancers to place some of the evil stuff in the Red Keep? It could have been those lowly 'smallfolks' who came to rescue both our sorry asses. Understand?" I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a very small, dim lightbulb go off inside the pretty little shit's brain. "We have a Septon or a Septa travelling with us, don't we?"

The light died and Joffrey rolled his eyes. "Yes, father. Septon Bryon and Septa Damas."

"Then tonight I want you to seek out Father Bryon and ask him to recite to you the _Seven Pointed Star_ ," I smirked.

The brat groaned. "How much?"

I was tempted to say the whole thing. The Septon probably wouldn't have appreciated that either. "A chapter or two on the _Father_ , and ask the Septon to focus on our duties to the smallfolk."

"I ..." Joffrey started to protest.

"Do it!" I roared, unleashing bad parental Robert.

"Yes, father," 'my son' responded with downcast eyes. He had probably seen a fist of mine clench.

"Now ride back beside Ser Arys, and ask him what his knightly duties towards the smallfolk are."

He 'humphed,' and likely gladly pulled back on the reins of his horse.

I knew I was prejudiced against the spoiled brat. Was I just toying with him, when I knew he had to die? Or was some small guilt ridden part of me actually hoping I could alter, however small, the trajectory of the little bastard's warped personality?

It's easy to say you'd kill infant Hitler. I now suspected it was another thing all together to actually do it.

* * *

"You and mother shouldn't fight, father," Myrcella chastised me with all the precocious innocence of an adorable eight year old princess.

I laughed heartily. Then, "I agree, Princess. It sets a bad example for you and your brothers."

She nodded in agreement with sage seriousness.

At least she hadn't stomped on my deficient parental skills right off the bat. We'd been riding side by side for at least fifteen minutes and the girl must have exhausted the highlights of the major events over the past twelve days since she had last spoken to her real, or make that not so real, father.

"At least you aren't stuck in the Wheelhouse doing needle work, eh?" I prodded joshfully. Cersei, when she had "calmed down," had commandered the oversized carriage all for herself and her sulk; kicking out not only the ladies-in-waiting, but family too.

She smiled shyly. "Riding is more fun."

"Hee-yah!" I shouted. "Catch me if you can." I spurred my mount from a walk into a canter.

"Hehehehehe," she giggled.

I looked over my shoulder and saw her urging her much smaller horse to give chase. I smiled at her childish delight, not worrying whether actions like this would raise hell with the overbearing itch of a mother later.

* * *

"And then the inn keeper gave me a bowl of milk so the Tym would get close enough for me to pet. He was orange with yellow highlighted strips across his back."

Jesus, cats, that's all the kid talked about. Really, George? You couldn't have thought of giving him any more of a personality than that? "So what did you name this ferocious feline, Tomen?" I asked, feigning interest. For my own sanity, I needed to come up with a plan so I could stand to be around the lad.

* * *

"Stop staring at me, for Gods sake," she hissed quietly at me.

"Hhhmmn?" I responded absently.

The royal party had taken over the entire inn. And now that the King had been reunited with his traveling court, etiquette became more formal. The Baratheon family must dine together in the main room with as many of the notables out of the two hundred some odd of them as could be squeezed in.

King and Queen were given rooms beside each other and time to clean up and change into proper garb before dinner. And a very chilly dinner it was. My "wife" would neither look nor talk to me. Worse, Joffrey sat the other side of me. Conversation lagged. I found myself drumming my fingers on the tabletop impatiently, frustrated. And worse, reaching for the conveniently placed wine jug.

Three times I clasped Nirvana, but found just enough willpower to let go. That at least seemed to draw Cersei's notice. I was sticking to a mug of ale. Well, two mugs. I wondered what she would make of a quieter, soberer Robert. Too quiet. The dinner was killing me. "Music!" I roared, standing up so fast my chair knocked over backward.

From the corner of my eye, I spied a snide smirk develop on those lovely, lovely ruby lips. "Music fit for my Queen of Love!" I shouted. The smirk turned angry. I dropped a meaty, clammy hand to rest on her shoulder. "A song worthy of your Queen's beauty, I command it!"

"Here, here!" or some such the room roared back in agreement.

Two lyres plucked forth, but one plucked faster and stronger. A jaunty, poorly dressed singer stepped forward and began singing.

" _Twas in green leafy springtime,_

 _When the birds on every tree_

 _Were breakin' all their little hearts_

 _In a merry melody._

 _An' the young buds hung like tassels,_

 _An' the flowers grew everywhere -_

 _'Twas in green leafy springtime_

 _I met sweet Rose Adair._

 _O Rose Adair ! O Rose Adair !_

 _You are the radiant sun,_

 _The blossomed trees, an' scented breeze,_

 _An' song-birds all in one_."

* * *

"Her Grace is indisposed," the lady-in-waiting said softly through the crack in the door; luckily not daring to meet my eyes, for then I surely would have averted mine.

"And I am the King," I declared firmly and started pressing against the door. She could not resist my giant strength. "Best you leave." Then, when I got a full view of the room, in a louder voice, "And the rest of you too."

Three more sweet things and Lancel bowed and rushed out of the bedchamber in embarrassment. That last bit was interesting.

The door closed.

"What games are you about, Robert? Have you not shamed me enough today?" Cersei demanded hotly, but not too loudly. Decorum of sorts.

She was radiant. Long golden hair unbound at the days end. A thin silk embroidered top with enough decolletage to reveal almost bare shoulders and a hint of cleavage that a lucky gold chain dangled between. "You are beautiful, Cersei. Extraordinarily so. I am sorry that those words have come to mean an insult between us."

With obvious effort she bit back on her tongue and gave a small nod of understanding.

"In the morning, I would hear your advice on how to deal with Balon Greyjoy."

That surprised her, I could tell. Still, her eyes automatically narrowed in suspicion. She really was deeply, deeply paranoid. Satisfied there was no evident slight in my proposal, she nodded again.

"You lost a mother, Cersei. And that is a terrible thing, especially for a young girl."

"Robert, Godsdamn ..."

"Here me out, woman!" I barked. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead and in my pits. It was taking all my willpower to stay focused, to stay kingly, and to not shrink from this gorgeous, angry creature. I ... I needed another drink of courage.

"I lost a father and a mother. But I was at least a man by years when it occurred, and a thoughtless oaf to boot. What's more, I had a second father who I could run away to hide behind without even realizing it." I took a big breath. "Now Jon is gone and I am done hiding."

Green, hard eyes stared at me a long time. Calculating? "Why are you telling me this, Robert?" she asked coolly; perhaps with a hint of condescension.

A big sweat bead rolled down my cheek into my beard. "Because if I am to be honest with myself, I should try being honest with those closest to me. Sleep well, Cersei. We shall speak in the morning." And I'll try not to have a hangover


	9. Part 8 - Sexual Self Defense

Why did I ever suggest "Ride with me" to Cersei that next morning over breakfast? Breakfast? No, smorgasbord fit for a king, which explained my fat ass and belly if this was what got placed before me on a regular basis.

And sure as hell why did I ever in a million years say to her, " _If I am to be honest with myself, I should try being honest with those closest to me_ "?

Oh, I'm so clever. Just say this, do that, a nudge here, an understanding tone of agreement there; and my good intent is so clearly obvious to even a blind man, that things will go just swimmingly. Dazzle her with your insightful brilliance while still playing the dullard. So easy.

Bullshit.

Seventeen years of marriage to a woman far smarter than myself should have disabused me of that notion. But oh no, I'm a Song of Ice and Fire fanfiction writer. I've studied the major characters. I "know" them. I've read other "knowing" writers. Piece of Cake. Everything is A to B to C, straight linear progression. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, I'm golden until I have to make my next move in the Game of Thrones.

HA!

Idiot. Should have listened to my fears. Better to keep your damn mouth shut than open it and prove to everyone you're a fool. Thanks Mark Twain, or was that Homer Simpson, I don't remember. I'm too busy sweating my balls off under the onslaught of the unnatural force of nature called Cersei Lannister.

She's still fucking hot as hell though. Wish she was riding my saddle.

At least no one batted an eye at having liquor with breakfast.

* * *

Clip.

"Why won't you tell me who this secret messenger was?" she snapped peevishly ... for the fourth or twelfth time.

Clop.

Because he didn't exist. Leave it alone already. "Cersei, what does it matter what pissant errand boy it was?" I growled in exasperation. "What only matters was he came from Stannis. There was finally confirmation of how Varys, the slaving, child maiming, ball-less bastard Blackfyre has been spying on us all for years; and in the notes his agents came across, it was clear the seven faced liar was holding out information on the Greyjoys. He's dead. Hopefully Stannis, the hard headed cockhead, now feels safe to return to King's Landing," I desperately summarized for the umpteenth time.

Clip.

"You spoke of honesty, Robert," she chirped yet again.

Clop.

AAAAGGGHHHHHH, I screamed inside my head. Why can't you focus on how my lame ass explanation takes all the focus off of Jon Arryn and Stannis investigating how "my children" are really all bastards for your incestuous cuckholding of Robert. Make me feel safe!

Clip.

Fury at my own futility rose spitefully inside.

Clop.

"You want honesty, woman! I'll give you honesty! There is only so much pointless badgering I can take before I explode!" I bellowed in an unintentional effort to match this body's reputed base temperament in dealing with her. "I've admitted I've treated you shamefully. Yell and curse and tear me down for that. I deserve it. You are a lioness of House Lannister. Roar at me. Don't disparage me and rile my patience with petty slights heaped upon petty complaints, its ... its unbecoming of a great lady ... a Queen for gods-sakes," I harrumphed.

Clip.

Her mouth twitched.

Clop.

The nose clinched just a little.

Clip.

Something calculating went on behind those emerald, emerald eyes.

Clop.

Did anyone ever once in any story mention how incredibly fucking difficult it is to read facial expressions while riding a goddamned horse, even at a walk? No, of course not. Because they've never had to ride anything more than a swivel chair and a keyboard. Useless motherfuckers. Get out of your parent's basement.

Clip.

"You are playing a game with me somehow," she declared suspiciously.

Clop.

I half moaned, half vented a grumble. YES! Get on board. Please. My hand shot out and grabbed a bit of slack in her reins. Somehow, I've no idea how, I maneuvered my beast next to hers while stopping both of us.

"At least this is a better game than the one we've played ... forever," I blurted out with pent up frustrated emotions of ... something.

"You're begging me," she blurted out in amazement. Other than scorn and hatred, the first true emotions I'd seen her express. The look slid off just as quickly as it came. "Remember your King," she chastised.

I let go her reins and raised my hand.

Instinctively she flinched a little.

Yet another reason I wanted to vomit. I gently laid the hand on her cheek. My skin tingled. Weird sensation to have nausea and lust at the same moment. I exhaled heavily. I was doing that a LOT!

"And you are both Queen and wife. As I am King and husband." My lips had a tough time forming the words, I wanted to lean over and kiss her. She couldn't say no, could she? Just stab me in my sleep or something even nastier. "Do you think your mother always treated your father as Lord Tywin."

That smooth skin paled slightly, or my eyes might have played a trick on my, other than that no true reaction was revealed.

"It is said that they truly loved each other. Too much has passed between us for that to happen, Cersei. But perhaps the hate can end," I whispered hopefully. "You are beautiful."

"You have changed, Robert."

For better or worse, I couldn't see through those emerald, emerald eyes. I could only hope.

She swished her reins and lightly applied spurs. "Come. Another day will see us to Darry. I look forward to abusing as much of Ser Raymun's hospitality as possible," she announced with a wicked smile.

Clip.

I nudged my horse forward. A Cersei apparently set on a course worried me as much as an undecided Cersei.

Clop.

Until we broke for what passed as lunch, Cersei mostly spoke of "our children" and the short comings of both House and Castle Darry.

Clip.

I mostly complemented her on her beauty, horsemanship, and wicked sense of humor.

Clop.

* * *

Ser Raymun did set a lovely feast for his King. It wasn't the grandest of castles, hey, I'd already been to the Red Keep, but still cool as shit. The biggest holdfast I had visited so far in my two weeks in Westeros. At what size did a holdfast achieve the status of "castle"? I didn't know, I just paid attention to what those around me said as we passed basic motte and bailey and other fortress configurations.

There was a passing mummer's troop that the knightly lord, was that the correct ranking(?), had basically incarcerated upon hearing of my coming. Why couldn't GRRM have at least broken nobility down into Knight, Baron, Earl, Duke? Wasn't "Ser" instead of "Sir" world establishing unique cuteness enough?

The group was comprised of a pair of singers, one of whom played harp and the other a lyre or a lute depending, a juggler, a tumbler, a joke teller, and they could all act out skits together. Better stuff than your average Renaissance Fair entertainment. And no need to try and translate Elizabethan/Shakespeare style English. Maybe the wine helped too.

As my first "official" feast, it was odd sharing my plate with Raymun's wife, the pleasant enough Lady Felicia; who initially was clearly nervous about sitting beside the notorious lecher Robert Baratheon. My eyes and hands stayed aimed straight ahead.

Cersei shared with Raymun and kept her snark to a minimum. Joffrey and Tommen each got their own plates at the High Table. And where was the kiddie table? No where, that's where. Joffrey was a shit, but at least not an insufferable one. While the Darry heir, Lyman, shared with Myrcella. They were close to an age, making me wonder how intentional the set up was. The boy was on his best behavior as far as I could tell. He must have been cause Cersei didn't feel the need to say boo once to him.

What?

I glanced down. There was a hand on my thigh.

I at least didn't whip my head straight round to look. Play it cool, Paul. Play it cool. She was just sort of almost looking in my direction, a lazy smile upon her lips. Ruby, lush, moist lips.

I sat up a tad stiffer in my chair and smiled widely. The goblet went back down to the table. I cautiously dropped a hand and stroked once with my finger.

The "offending" hand slide down my leg to my knee and then off.

Cersei laughed encouraging at some exploit going on down below the High Table.

I, on the other hand, winced. I might have just broken my cod piece with Big Robert.

* * *

Cersei leaned over occasionally to whisper in my ear, just brushing against my arm. Her breath was soft.

Once she came over far enough that her breast, admittedly constrained by fine velvet, tantalizingly rubbed on me. My eyes fluttered in ecstasy at that.

When she spoke "Robert," there was a slight huskiness to her voice.

The hand flitted back every now and then too; encouraging a quick caress back that she always teasingly fled from.

She even rested that hand a rapturous moment on Big Robert.

I squirmed in torturous delight.

The lazy smile grew more encouraging.

I bite my lip in anguish.

More wine was pushed my way.

I accepted more often than I should have.

She appeared to drink handsomely too.

Her face grew flush.

"My wife" was a world class flirt and seductress. No surprise there.

It felt very, very good to be the king.

This was the Game of Thrones I had hoped to play.

I was petrified of her.

I wanted her.

* * *

I couldn't wait any longer. I stood, holding aloft my goblet. "Ser Raymun!" I shouted with an undoubtedly goofy grin upon my face. "As fine a feast as I can remember!"

"Thank you, your Grace," the man automatically responded, though his smile seemed genuine.

"A cheer for Ser Raymun and House Darry!" I thunderously commanded.

"Huzzah!"

"Louder!" I bellowed.

"HUZZAH!"

I cocked a cupped hand, but not the hand with a cup, to my ear.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"

I nodded sagely. "That's better," I announced. I think the fellow blushed in pleasure. I looked down at the man's wife and found her fanning herself to hide the face busting smile on her mug.

I had no idea how many protocols I was breaking. I didn't much care. "While it would be my pleasure to stay longer, I fear that the day has been long on the Stag and his Doe." I switched hands holding the drink and rested one on Cersei's shoulder. She didn't flinch, but even leaned into me slightly. "It is time for me to retire." And bang the Queen into next week.

"No, your Grace. Stay," Ser Raymun countered pleadingly. No doubt hoping I would spill more accolades on him.

Shouts of "Stay" were taken up in the Great Hall.

"No, no. You are as generous with your words as you are with your feast, Ser Raymun." He smiled more. "Time to allow the young bucks to have their fun without the royal gaze restraining their ... enthusiasms." I narrowed my eyes in an exaggerated sense and pretended to look carefully over the hall.

The room erupted in wild shouts. Really? For that hammy act? Who the fuck actually talks like that? And they eat that shit up. It can't be just because I'm king, can it? Well, maybe.

"But my last official duty," Before banging this gorgeous creature whose clothes I want to rip off. "Is to proclaim a toast. To Ser Raymun."

"SER RAYMUN!"

I hoisted the goblet and drained the last of the red wine in it.

"Come, Cersei." I held out my arm.

A page pulled back her chair as she stood and rested a slim, delicate, smooth hand atop my thick, rough one.

Out we walked through the cheers with Ser Arys and Ser Boros - Beauty and the Beast - trailing behind.

Her fingers dipped and teased down between my own. In my old body, I would have yelped from the ticklishness of it. Here I just wanted to yelp for another reason.

"You are so amusing, Robert," Cersei snickered once we were outside. "' _As fine a feast as I can remember,'_ I had a better piece of fowl when I broke my fast this morning at that shitty inn," she whispered. "And that tart, it was as bitter as Lady Felicia's face."

Ah, what a bitch. And she's all mine.

A half dozen retorts came to mind. In my own best interest, I repressed them and simply shrugged with a light laugh of seeming agreement.

* * *

Into the Plowman's Keep we went and up the stairs to the top level, Ser Raymun and sour Lady Felicia's personal apartments, vacated for royal occupancy. I led Cersei to her door.

"One last drink?" she offered.

I kept my mouth from dropping and spewing drool everywhere. And instead, squeezed out a hopeful (desperate?) smile and an encouraging nod.

A guard opened the door. In she went, immediately followed by an imperious, "Leave us."

"Wait outside," I murmured in a strangled voice to the white cloaks.

A small bevy of women rushed and bowed past me as I entered the forbidden temple. A lovely, large, luxurious bed chamber, aside from no indoor plumbing, from my upper middle class perspective. Big canopy bed draped with gauzy, patterned sheets from above, I noted. Cersei probably thought it all a dump.

She was already at a side table, pouring wine.

I slid up behind her and wrapped my bear like arms around her waist.

"Robert," she tittered, and pressed her sweet bum against my obvious excitement.

"Shhh," I whispered into her ear, and then took a nibble at the lobe. Oh god. She tried to turn around. "No, no." I said softly, holding her tight, as my mouth and teeth and tongue explored.

"Your wine," she suggested.

I was drunk enough already. And a hand job - the Cersei special - was not what I ultimately planned on happening tonight. "You are drink enough, my sweet beauty," I murmured huskily, moving down to that exquisite neck. I released one hand to reach up and grasp a forearm, pulling the proffered chalice back on to the table. Then a quick swap of arms and I did the same to the other arm and glass. "Its been too long."

"Yes, yes it has, Robert," she readily agreed, although it did not sound totally honest.

I knew she would dislike not being the one in control. Regardless, I pressed on. My inner elbows were now rising up and down on either side of her child bearing hips and tight torso as I continued my assault on her neck. "Tonight will be about your pleasure, my swee ... sweetling." The local love vernacular did not roll off the tongue readily.

"Oh?" There was surprise and a hint of doubt in that brief statement.

"Oh, yes. Don't move," I prompted her, begged her. One arm reluctantly disengaged so the hand could search in my pockets. Ah, there. I pulled out a cravat or a medieval equivalent of a hanky. Silken, yet solid enough some light could get through, but nothing more. And must thankfully, unused.

"What are you doing?" she asked a tad nervously.

"Shhh, shhh," I urged, taking the cloth in two hands and raising it over her face, over those calculating, beautiful emerald eyes.

"Robert?" Definitely nervous now. She started to struggle a bit.

My lips came off her neck. "Pretend its your secret lover." Brother fucker.

"What?"

"There is no Cersei tonight. No Robert. Only ... Jonquin and Florial," I said softly, pulling the silk back to cover the smoldering green that could pierce my weak soul.

"Jonquil and Florian, you fool," she laughed uneasily.

"Aye, a fool." Such a huge, huge fool. And worse. Soon much, much more vile.

I turned her about.

Ruby, succulent lips stared back at me. I tasted them. I moaned.

"Robert?"

"No, a knightly fool."

I kissed her again. And again. My hands roamed over her back and butt.

She went to speak again. My tongue slide inside her mouth.

She stiffened in surprise. Thank god she didn't bite down to permanently mute me. I would need my tongue. The tension faded some, accepting my attack. So I picked her up. Light as a feather. My groin so heavy. The movement separated our mouths. "For your pleasure," I repeated. "For your pleasure

Carefully down on the bed I set her, stretching her out. How much was the support of her dress or the tautness of her body, but her breasts mostly stayed thrust upright. I leaned over her, trying to keep my fat, repellent belly off of her evil perfection. The caresses resumed. My lips touched her again and again.

Minutes passed. Now I teased her as best I could. She both tensed and relaxed. Words at last slipped out of those perfectly curved lips. "Fool," she moaned.

I reached up with a long arm and yanked down, tearing off a strand of the gauzy draping dangling off the canopy. Then another.

"What are you doing," she asked softly between tiny whimpers.

As best I could, I quickly made two loops. And at last I rest my full weight upon her. Grabbing her small hands with my large violating ones, twining our fingers, and pulling her arms outright. I smothered her with kisses.

She kissed back.

"Wh-wh-what?" she stuttered, as I slipped the loops around her wrists, tightened them, and quickly wrapped them around the bed posts.

"Your pleasure, my sweetling." My body slid down her torso and thick hands started inexpertly pawing at her delicate dress; lifting the hem of the skirt up.

"Robert!" Panic. She definitely did not enjoy the loss of this much control.

"A fool, just a fool. Your fool." Her mons was glorious. My fingers lightly stroked the ridges and folds. I breathed a rationalized sigh of relief. She was moist. Not a flood, but definitely moist.

"Sssstop."

I didn't. "Your pleasure, my queen. Your pleasure," I chanted; touching, brushing, licking, nibbling, kissing, caressing.

After a while her body began to shudder. She moaned. Then as God and Alien Space Bats were my witness, Cersei orgasmed.

By that point I had long lost my erection. I unloosened her bonds and left the room, never having taken my clothes off.


	10. Part 9 - Keep your Enemies Close and

**.. And your Wife Closer**

I didn't go get drunk, though I wound up having the equivalent of a hangover. Sleep took a long time in coming. Tears, not so much; they came readily. Was I an adulterer? Was I a rapist? Or only a mere sexual ... harasser? ... offender? ... groper? I somehow hadn't ever gotten around to taking the multi-verse ethics class in philosophy at Syracuse University thirty years ago.

Varys death and potentially the others I had already directly set in motion had not bothered me so much. Clearly those men were evil; capital "E" evil from the get go. Rationalizing that, applying moral equivalence, as part of saving my own ass was unquestionably distasteful. Did it keep me up some at night? Sure. But all-in-all those actions were undoubtedly moves towards the greater good for Westeros, not just myself. I slept knowing that the curve of history, if there was such a thing, was bending towards justice thanks to me.

And for the unintentional deaths that I knew would occur from whatever course I choose to follow, this being Westeros after all and I was Robert fucking Baratheon? Well, best not thought about much. But again, I firmly believed I was doing my best to plan for a minimization of collateral damage. My soul and sanity clutched tight to that idea. And, I would never let go. Never.

… unless my own life was on the line.

Last night? Ugh. Cersei was lower case evil by comparison in my humble opinion. Unfortunately, with her position and psychosis and selfishness, she came with a near unmatched ability to set in motion World Class Evil. Ok, maybe I was exaggerating. Too much show Cersei cause and effect versus the last book having been published, what? Three years ago?

My reprehensible actions had been pleasurable ... very, very pleasurable ... to a point. And my wife was not available for me to beg full forgiveness from; or, at least the dispensation of a begrudging understanding. ' _My life was on the line honey, and honestly, to save it I simply had to perform oral sex on this ravishingly gorgeous but thoroughly despicable woman, you get it, don't you?_ ' Seventeen years of marriage and I had never cheated. Never thought of cheating. Not that anyone had shown any interest in me that way other than my wife over those years ... well there was that one time over dinner that Rhonda had hinted at a three-way with me and Rebecca.

Round and round and round I spun. Tossing and turning my lard ass frame on the ridiculous oversized feather bed. I did drink most of one bottle of wine to help me fall into troubled slumber; while promising myself I'd do better restraining my Robert ways the next day.

* * *

Cersei did not come down to the Great Hall to join me or ' _the children_ ' for breakfast. Lancel's polite tap on the door and whispered words with whatever lady-in-waiting had snuck back into her room after I had left eventually elicited a polite fiction of "Her Grace still slumbers, your Grace." I wondered how confused, angry, receptive she would be. Either unhappy or still processing, apparently. I was happy enough to let the lioness remain undisturbed and resume my male pattern ostrich imitation. Why push for an emotional response I might not like? That sounded Robert-ish.

The morning beer felt good; alleviating some of my headache. I only had the one glass, then tea. Promises, promises. I was never a tea fan. Sweet and fruity iced tea – raspberry or mango was ok; Captain Picard's Earl Grey –yuck. Alas, no coffee. Deal with it, tubby.

So many worse things than a lack of coffee for a great king to confront in the miasma of medieval life. For example, Ser Raymun was intent on cajoling me into a hunt on his lands. Aside from never having taken an animal's life except through inadvertent vehicular animal-icide, sure, I've just been lugging my new lard ass on a horse for the first time ever the last two weeks straight. "An excellent idea, Ser Raymun," I agreed with faux enthusiasm. #FakeNews "Perhaps we can fill your larder to help with this evening's feast. Remind me again, what other Riverland lords will be joining us?"

"Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. And blah, blah, blah."

The knightly lord's enthusiasm at potentially bankrupting his House for the pleasure of his king was a bit spooky. Maybe it was #Fake too. Probably just a cultural values thing I wouldn't understand. I should probably ask ... Cersei, I guess ... what the expected royal quid was for Ser Raymun's quo in an instance like this. Expensive gift. Some minor royal monopoly. A position at court for a relative. My largesse flowth over more than just my belt.

Of the names and locations Lord Darry rattled off, I only definitively remembered Tytos Blackwood. There were lordlings coming from a few places I had heard of: Saltpans, Lord Harroway Town, and of course Harrenhal - though it was apparently the noble born castellan and not old Lady Whent who was coming to pay homage.

'Homage? That's disgusting.' I snickered to myself at the ' _Life of Brian_ ' reference; drawing a few curious, discrete looks for no one had said anything remotely humorous. I might not be me anymore, but I was still me. I might suck at music lyrics, but I remembered a crap load of Python. I started humming the tune to " _Life's a piece shit when you look at it,_ " and then stuffed a hardboiled egg into my enormous mouth.

* * *

The guard outside her door shook his head no as I passed by on my way back to my quarters. Fine by me. Denial, not just a river in Egypt.

Yet again I was clothed or re-clothed. How these "hunting" clothes were any different than my riding clothes was beyond my fashion sense. Though, Tyrek and Lumpy had strong opinions. So I simply let them fight it out between themselves, then thanked them once an acceptable compromise was reached and I had given my royal nod of consent along with a kind word.

Tyrek, having ridden back to King's Landing with me, had gotten a bit used to my "excessive" use of thanks. Lancel still looked uneasy at any gesture of appreciation I sent his Justin Bieber ass looking way. Oh there's a trap I intend laying your way, buddy. Never fear. Just not yet.

Once fully donned in my slaughter house regalia, Lumpy asked which wine I wished to take with me. There are traps and then there are traps. My answer surprised him again. "A spot of beer, but mostly tea. Well … two spots."

* * *

Ser Raymun hid his disappointment moderately well when I asked " _the children_ " whether they wished to come on the hunt. I liked this never having to hear "no" thing. It's good to be the King. Have I said that before?

Tommen begged off. There were kittens to find and play with. Really? Every time. Did someone drop you on your head as a baby. I simply had to expand the range of the boy's hobbies. Sweet was not necessarily interesting.

Myrcella bust a huge smile; then said, "I won't tell mother." I winked at her.

I couldn't tell whether Joffrey assumed his presence was mandatory anyway or if he had actual interest – look, sweet little things to torture and kill, Joffy.

I knew I'd rather sit on my fat ass all day. There were several books and scrolls in Ser Raymun's bed chamber. I'd picked up and done a quick flip through of "The Seven Pointed Star" at some point with my copious three seconds of unaccounted for non-sleeping time. Privacy? What privacy? It's not so good being the king sometimes. When the hell did Cersei ever find the opportunity to shag Jaime?

As we mounted up and Ser Raymun started on the litany of which beasts were most available and where, I laughed so hard I broke into a coughing fit – hey, beer, offered by Lumpy, don't mind if I do – when he identified a spot well known for boars.

Finally, breath regained, "Ahhh, thank you no, Ser. I recently pledged myself to avoid the … pleasures of boar hunting until I was ... less fat."

"Your Grace is as strong and fit as he ever was," my host automatically protested.

I snorted a small laugh. Fat ass kissers; all of you. "We both know that is not so, my friend. Nevertheless, your offering up a boar hunt, struck a humorous note in me for some reason." Stop explaining. You don't need to. It's good to be the king. "And I think I shall avoid does and stags as well." I pointed at the coat of arms on my jerkin.

"And what about lions, father?" Joffrey asked.

"Only to save my own life," I answered with a grin.

* * *

"We could just kill the sheep and goats," I heard the Hound grumble loudly from behind me as I rode with Joffrey.

"Did you say something, Dog?" " _my son_ " snarled.

We were in fact riding through a pasture, the livestock fleeing at our approach, on the way to where some bears – perfectly acceptable prey, so long as I didn't have to close one – were reputed to den up.

"A waste of bloody time. There'll be only one if we find it and who gets the kill?" he griped, the inference obvious.

I turned to look back at the man challenging me without outright challenging me. Gods, you're an ugly, ugly, scary looking monster of a fuck.

For the umpteenth time, as I studied the horror that was Sandor Clegane's face – trying for a strong, fearless Robert look, lines from the Steve Martin movie _Roxanne_ came to me.

" _Whatever you do, don't stare._ "

" _I'm not gonna stare._ "

" _None of us would. Then you get there, and feel yourself not staring._ "

" _Then you think, it's obvious I'm not staring. So you look, and you think, 'I'm staring.' So you say, 'this is ridiculous,' and you take a GOOD LOOK. And you think, 'I'm looking at a man who, when he washes his face, loses the bar of soap.'_ "

But in this case, it wasn't a modern day Cyrano De Bergerac losing the soap up his nose. Instead, it was a medieval horror who would lose it into the gap of missing flesh in his cheek. I shuddered.

"What?!" he challenged me.

I smiled evilly. Then, in a booming voice, proclaimed, "Ser Raymun! My son and his dog shall have the honor of delivering first blows upon our prey when we discover them!"

"Father? Truly?" Joffrey shouted happily.

Clegane's eyes, staring into mine, simply narrowed suspiciously.

* * *

Bad plan. Bad plan. Bad plan.

No, it wasn't even a plan. Like an idiot, I just went with my gut ... with my hate. Can I hate fictional characters when they turn up as real? Yet another question to save for that multi-verse ethics class in philosophy, should I ever get to register for it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Cersei will kill me. Kill, kill, kill ME! If anything, even a hangnail, is torn off of her precious Joffrey.

The little tall shit doesn't seem nervous, though; does he? Only excited.

Well, it was a typical rash Robert gesture. " _Sure son, go ahead and have the first swipe at a pissed off beer._ " Ahhh, beer. I mean bear. I'd quickly drunk all the beer that Lumpy had brought and then started bumming long chugs of wine from the skins of several knights and lordlings in passing. More typical Robert in action. Congrats on staying in character.

"My chief huntsman says we are near, your Grace. My Prince," Ser Raymun announced.

I had heard the man clear as day. Was repeating things I'd already heard everyone's job around the king? Like Sigourney Weaver in _Galaxy Quest_? As the rocky knoll in the woods came closer, by some sort of silent agreement, the lesser hanger-ons and non-useful members of the hunt had faded into the background, leaving barely a dozen, certainly no more than a score, of us _lucky_ ones.

"Father?" Joffrey asked eagerly.

I looked about. "Shouldn't there be more dogs?" I wondered aloud. Three muzzled ones, all very large and fierce looking, whimpered anxiously and strained at their leashes; held barely by some grizzled and frumpy gray haired man close by the chief huntsman. At least Myrcella had been left back a good ways.

"And spoil the sport, your Grace," someone scoffed.

I started turning my mount and twisting in the saddle, trying to pick out which macho prick had gainsaid me. I really should put a stop to this ... madness.

"Here's the spear, my Prince."

I looked over, surprised. When did Joffrey dismount? Things were moving too fast. "Clegane?"

An unexpected hand grabbed a thigh, hard. I looked down into that mask of revulsion. "He'll live," the scarred face spat in obvious disgust at my nervous, fearful persona. His breath stank of sour wine and death.

"Unleash the hounds!"

With howls they took off like a shot, racing for the rubble strewn incline.

Joffrey and Clegane trotted after; one holding a not so ridiculously long spear and the other only his bare blade.

Most of the others in the party were already dismounted and arming themselves.

REE-EEKIT!

My head snapped up. One of the big dogs was tumbling through the air, bloody viscera spewing out of a huge gash in its belly. That escalated quickly.

A bevy of piggish squeals erupted from the rock and brush thicket on the slope.

"Boar!" multiple voices took throat.

Fuck me. Really?

"Spears damnit! Spears!" men bellowed, rushing for their horses.

A challenging squeal grew louder … closer.

"Get down, your Grace!" Tyrek or Lancel cried.

A monster charged straight at me. I could only stare at it in utter fascination. Huge. Thick, sharp, deadly, already blooded tusks stuck out from its snout.

I tried to yank my horse's head out of the way. The other hand slapped helpless against the saddle searching vainly for a long, long weapon of any sort.

Twang. Twang.

The boar grunted once. I saw an arrow appear in its side, almost to the fletching. The beast barely slowed.

"AHHHHH!" I screamed, tumbling out of my seat.

THUD.

I hit hard. My body and mind jarred. Luckily nothing heavy fell on top of me. I tried to roll away from my flailing horse.

I didn't see a white cloak anywhere as I spun desperately about.

The monster swung back around towards me.

Twang. Twang.

Unfathomable piggy eyes glared at me. They weren't Boros Blount's piggy eyes. These were angry, malicious. Growing larger. Larger. LARGER.

Snickt!

Something bright and silvery sliced down and the dull grey brown head of the boar erupted in a sprout of blood from its massive shoulders. It bounced once, twice, and came to rest, tusks thrust forward a foot from my quivering fat belly.

I looked up into Sandor Clegane's snarling, foul face. "Good dog," I whispered. "Good dog."

* * *

I raised a goblet yet again. I was hot and sweaty and very, very happy. I was still alive.

Cersei was cold, icy angry, and very, very sober.

I tried expressing my joy to her multiple times as we feasted that night with an even larger number of lords and lordlings of the Riverlands.

She would have nothing of it.

The boar Ser Raymun served in abundance that night did not taste as good to her palette as it almost might have had. Tough shit, bitch!

Eventually, to escape the chill, I got up to walk around the Great Hall in between courses.

I asked Ser Quincy Cox how good sea trade was, and with whom, at the Saltpans.

The Hound was toasted.

I queried Ser Benjamin Roote about how the river traffic coming down the Trident to Lord Harroway's Town was distributed in quantity and type between the Red, Green, and Blue Forks.

The Hound was toasted.

Lord(ling) Fylp Runnel was made to chart out the stunted branches of House Whent; with not even Walder Frey being able to plant seed in a Whent's unfertile soil. Then the castellan of Harrenhal had been commanded to explain the equally withered vines of House Tully to me. The Stark children, which I hadn't thought possible, looked even more valuable than I, a moderately learned ASOIAF FanFic writer, had ever suspected.

The Hound was toasted.

Lord Tytos Blackwood had been given the place of honor of sitting beside Cersei. So some times, instead of wandering, I simply stood between the two, resting my arms on the backs of both their chairs to converse. A convivial and interesting enough dinner table companion. Clever too. The one time he brought up the Brackens I immediately needled him about having so many sons and Lord Jonos so many daughters. He let the unsubtle jab slide off his back and never mentioned their feud in my hearing again. Smart man.

That was the one moment I thought Cersei almost smiled.

And the Hound was toasted yet again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

I put a large, meaty finger up to my slobbering lips and very loudly said, "SHHHHHHHHHHHH!" to the whole of Darry's Great Hall

Five minutes earlier, Cersei had made a barely polite excuse (read lie) to Ser Raymun of seeing " _the children_ " off to bed. Joffrey, not viewing himself as a child, had received a resounding slap to the back of the head when he tried to decline the honor. I gave the tall little bastard a conspiratorial wink of condolence.

A loud roar of "WHAT!" contrarily greeted my command.

I wave my hands rapidly, demanding quiet. The thunder dimmed sufficiently. "I plan," I announced slowly. "On extending my royal per-per-perogatives to the Queen ... to-to-tonight," I declared with a wide smile.

HUZZAH!

"SHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

* * *

I tiptoed up the steps of the Plowman's Keep.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

I turned back to my escort. "SHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Ser Arys, Lancel, Tyrek, and several pages looked at me like … What?

"SHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I reiterated.

I got to the top. "Her Grace?" I asked the double pair of guards. His and hers, for his and hers' quarters.

They shook their heads no. She really must have been putting " _the children_ " to bed.

"Good, you can go."

All four men looked at me like … What?

Or maybe she had found a non-Jaime selection for putting horns on Robert again. I laughed. "Go," I commanded again. Then I turned to my posse. "You too. Goes. I have a surplisze fer me-lady," I grooved.

"Your Grace," Ser Arys dutifully began.

"SHHHHHHHHHHHH! Go," I urged. "My royal per-per-perogatives-s-s-s. Oh, I'll need that." I snatched a spear and a cloak from one of the passing bed room guards.

* * *

My head was tipped down. Double and triple chins mushing into each other. My actually bony chin tucked almost down to my chest as it hid inside the voluminous cloak. My eyes were heavy. I felt good. Real good.

"Where are the others!?" that peevish voice snapped like a whip.

My eyes popped open. "We never just talk anymore Cersei," I chuckled.

"What!? Who!? Robert, what foolishness is this."

"A husband standing guard for his beautiful wife, far from foolish-ish," I declared.

"You're drunk."

Duh.

"Go to bed," she said with a strong tone of resignation.

"Not without a kiss."

"No."

"The king does not ask, he commands."

"No, Robert. You won't have me again like that."

"No," I chortled. "Not like that. Don't think I'm up for it. I am drunk after all."

She didn't respond verbally. Her lips tightened though; that much I could see.

"Was it so horrible? I remember hearing a few sounds that hinted at pleasure" I let out a few porn whimpers.

"Damn you." She tried to stride past me.

I blocked her. I felt strong. I was strong. I held her, spun her around, folded my arms over hers.

"Let me pass," she hissed.

"Not without a kiss."

My powerful arms moved as she took several deep breaths. "Very well," she acknowledged with the enthusiasm of a condemned man.

How not very erotic.

She tried to turn to face me. "T-t-t-t," I chastised her, keeping her in place with one thick arm. The hand on the other arm searched like it had the night before. "I think we should detour over to the Twins," I announced to distract her. "Walder Frey's a rich, ugly bastard; he should spend some coin entertaining his betters don't you think?"

Cersei just tapped her foot in response to indicate her lack of patience, disgust, and whatever else the hell a trapped woman feels.

"Do you think your Aunt Genna might be …"

"What are you doing?" she hissed, finally taking a note things were more than they seemed.

"Hold still," I whispered a tad ungently. The silk clothe was once more going over her eyes.

"You promised you wouldn't," she pleaded. Some panic definitely there.

"I did. And I won't. It's just for the kiss," I promised. I'd like to say she didn't struggle at all. The knot tightened into place, and then I turned her around to face me. God damn she was beautiful. There could be no doubt she felt my erection pressed against her belly.

"No Cersei," I whispered, placing tiny little kisses along one side of her luscious mouth.

A hand dropped down to grab that supple ass.

"No Robert." I squeezed her lower lip between my two larger ones.

The other hand lightly clasped the back of her neck and tilted it slow as I released her lip and nipped soft, soft touches here and there on that lovely ruby canvas.

"Not Jonquil."

I licked across her lips. I thought I detected her breath change slightly. Fear? Anticipation?

"Not even that fool Florian."

Kiss after sweet kiss. Pressure now pushing back against my own lips. I felt maaaaarvelous.

"Who … who are you?" she asked with a sexy whimper.

I took advantage of her slightly open lips. My tongue thrust in. I pressed her tight against me. Her warm, moist mouth accepted me. A tiny moan escaped her throat. Her tongue intertwined with mine. I was falling … falling … falling.

My entire being groaned as I detached myself from the beautiful, blind folded, vile princess standing before me in the dim torch light of a medieval castle's hallway.

"Who are you?" she repeated quietly.

"No one," I whispered; and then slipped away.


	11. Part 10 - The Lord of Casterly Rock

Tywin Lannister, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Father of House Lannister stood patiently beside the low wall on the eastern end of the curved outdoor gallery off of his private apartments - the purely business end of the gallery. From the lofty heights high up the Rock, his scrutiny saw far and wide. He often came here around this time; a regular break for his eyes from the scrolls of rulership, to stretch his legs in order to keep his middle lean, and, to ponder with only the sounds of breeze, birds, and sea as company.

Not that business did not occur on the western side of his personal galley too. Rich merchants sometimes needed to be wooed over fine wine instead of strong armed or simply dictated too. Critical banner lords on occasion must appear to be held in confidence; appreciated. Rare, powerful foreign guests shown every facet of Lannister strength as friendship was offered. These things could be better accomplished at that end, while watching over the magnificent view of his City as the sun dipped down towards the dark surging waters and salt spray of the Sunset Sea.

From where he stood now, though; Tywin could better take the pulse of his demesne's lifeblood. The two huge arteries of commerce and wealth and strength came down out of the Westerland's heights and rocky hills to merge in front of his great castle's east face, before passing on to Lannisport. The Gold Road and the River Road carried nobles, gold, guards, steel, merchants, silver, craftsman, fine goods, shepherds, livestock, farmers, wheat, laborers, sweat, hope and scum came by four feet, by two feet, and by wagon wheel. They beat a rhythm into the rock and earth that Tywin's innate senses could feel reverberating all the way up through the strong granite of Casterly Rock.

He stoically watched it all flow past as the mid-day sun warmed the exposed half of his face and the top of his shaved head. Seventeen days had passed since receiving the King's warning, causing him to spend more of his precious spare time gazing West than was his normal want. The sea and the trade that passed upon it were important too, only a fool would say otherwise. But it was not the basis of his house's great strength.

Today, however, …

"I thought I would find you here," the familiar voice announced.

"Kevan," he replied, acknowledging his brother's presence, while ignoring the implication of the comment by keeping his steely green eyes firmly set out there.

"It will be good to have Jaime home. A shame the King did not think to send Lancel or Tyrek with him."

"Casterly Rock is no longer my son's home," he declared; yet again setting the boundary for the near two decades disagreement.

"He was born here. He was raised here. This will always be his home," Kevan stated simply, with an uncle's love; not having been the father betrayed.

Tywin did not answer; as immovable on the point as the Rock was to the heavens and the tides.

Kevan having said his peace, smartly moved on. "What shall we do about Baelish?"

Tyrion. None of the fraud he claimed to have uncovered so far by the former Master of Coin had involved any of his loans to the Iron Throne. "Nothing. The King has risen this lordling to an emissary and promised him the Wardenship of the East. As yet our house has no claim of ill debt against him."

"And if the King's letter? …"

Tywin waved a hand dismissively; patience was seldom an issue for him. "I shall see what my goodson has to say to me when I hold it."

Tyrion's recent spate of ravens had been filled with news of import, nothing of wine and whores; except in mention of some of Lord Baelish's seedier financial ventures. Well known ventures for any with even a small modicum of knowledge of King's Landing's inner workings, but of the sort Tyrion no doubt took pleasure in commenting upon … and partaking of.

The Small Council was in greater upheaval than even the inevitable death of old Jon Arryn would have predicted. Surprises, good and ill. Some houses rising a bit. Some falling. A King acting with almost a hint of rulership … and then Tyrion's promotion. At least he so far had shown his duty, taking the useful lickspittle Pycelle's role of information purveyor to House Lannister.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched his brother smile slightly. He rearranged his face in response; knowing that some physical clue had given away at least part of his thoughts. The brothers knew each other well.

"He made an excellent Master of the Drains; and at only sixteen. Given a chance, Tyrion will do well on the Small Council."

Cersei. Fickle, drunk Robert Baratheon. The vicious, brilliant Olenna Tyrell. Hard, competent Stannis Baratheon. Tywin Lannister would not bet a … there! The Lannister Lion banner, promptly followed by more such of his mighty house's banners, had just become visible as the Gold Road took that last approaching turn out of the hills.

"Excellent speed Jaime made. He should have enough time to bath the grime of the road off before dinner," Kevan commented warmly at the thought of the reunion.

Tywin had expected nothing less. His and Joanna's son embodied all the martial skills that any of the great, no greatest, warriors from the Age of Heroes would envy; which included unparalleled horsemanship. And all the holdfasts, large and small, along the Gold Road within the Westerlands had obeyed his command. Ravens had updated him on Jaime's progress each day since his lost son had ridden back into the domains he should rightly one day inherit.

Jaime Lannister's arrival, now, was anything but unexpected in Tywin's mind.

* * *

"Be welcome, Lord Baelish. And partake of all Casterly Rock's hospitality," Tywin intoned formally from his throne in the Golden Gallery.

The short, slight man, the dust of the road only haphazardly sponged off his fine made clothes, bowed in return. King Robert's new emissary rose up a beat sooner than was properly respectful to a Lord Paramount. And his face bore a lazy grin that proclaimed himself unimpressed with neither Tywin nor the vast wealth displayed in his castle built into a mountain.

This style of behavior had long been anticipated. And Tywin cared little for it one way or the other. The odious worm was a _royal_ emissary; thus certain protocols were required, regardless that both men believed the gestures of proper civility completely unnecessary ... or truly deserved.

"More pleasurable words have I seldom heard, my lord. I feared the horses would beat the life out of my poor, miserable body for the pace that your son, Ser Jaime, set. It may take a month for me to feel properly alive again."

"A week," Tywin pronounced coolly. There would be no dispute on this matter.

Petyr Baelish did not flinch. The intended to be annoying smile only grew wider. "Then a week must resuscitate me sufficiently to deal with the salt addled mouth and brain of Balon Greyjoy," he japed. "Might you oblige me with a ship or point me in the direction of one already scheduled for Pyke, Lord Tywin? I fear I would not know where best to look for one in Lannisport."

He let the inappropriate, ungranted use of his given name fall off his back. Potentially clever of Baelish to seek his aid. How precarious did the man suspect his position to be? Did the worm underestimate Tyrion? Did Tyrion over or underestimate Baelish? "As Warden of the West, it is my duty to give full aide to a royally appointed emissary seeking to maintain the King's peace. Either method is available as you wish it, Lord Baelish."

The little man smiled that fake, sycophantic smile which Tywin remembered from the dozen or so unmemorable times he had spent in the presence of the former Master of Coin during his infrequent sojourns to King's Landing. Tywin, on the other hand, while amiable enough when the situation warranted, never smiled.

"And is the peace threatened, Lord Tywin? Have you discovered any news that supports the King's … suspicions … as accurate?"

The question about the King was asked in a disparaging tone. A manner Tywin might reciprocate a loud in private to Kevan, and to no one else. "They might, Lord Baelish," he declared firmly. "Ships manifests viewed in quantity indicate the possibility of a re-arming effort. An unexpected war galley sighting here and there. A drunken ironborn claim overheard; a rumor picked up in a tavern by a loyal Westerland sailor. There is evidence that Balon Greyjoy might be showing more subtlety than one would expect from an Ironborn. More I will not say in open court."

With blatantly wide eyes, Baelish cast his vision around the moderately attended Golden Gallery, before coming back to stare at Tywin on his golden throne. "Wise, Lord Tywin. Very wise." Not meaning a word of it.

"My Steward will show you to your quarters and see after your needs. Someone will come for you later to see if you have recovered sufficiently to dine with me. Perhaps we can talk more then, Lord Baelish." The generous offer was not said generously.

The worm took his dismissal with his usual attitude of just shy of insolence.

As Baelish took his time in withdrawing, Tywin stared at his son and he stared back at his father. Silently. The Lord of Casterly Rock's face grew stiffer as Jaime's grew … amused.

Finally the silent battle of wills broke. "Lord Father, I am here as King Robert requested. How may I assist Casterly Rock and the Westerlands?"

Tywin stood up. "You have a letter for me from the King. Bring it to my quarters. I trust you remember where they are. Attend me, Kevan." Court was dismissed.

* * *

"So you saw no need to kill Lord Petyr?" Kevan asked as the three Lannisters entered Tywin's inner sanctum.

"Tyrion's been telling secrets," Jaime laughed lightly. "No, Baelish was a good little boy. Vylarr and I watched him like a hawk. Nothing. No attempts to subvert the men. Still …"

"Yes?!" Tywin snapped impatiently. For his son's careless amusement at frivolities to his duties, he did have little patience. Baelish and the worm's possible machinations were the last thing in his thoughts right then.

Jaime smirked, as ever, in response. "Vylarr got the idea that perhaps some of our men were already on Littlefinger's payroll. So he began watching for anyone who seemed to purposefully avoid contact with the little whoremaster."

Tywin grunted in surprise and appreciation. Acknowledging to himself that Vylarr was a clever and worthy captain in his Red Cloaks. As the others continued talking, he walked around his work desk and sat down, putting the hard oak between him and his still standing son and brother.

"There were four or five in total we wound up suspecting."

"I'll see that they are split up and assigned duties outside the Rock and Lannisport immediately," Kevan dutifully interjected.

"So what else did my beloved brother tell you?" Jaime asked, hiding his tension as he almost always had since a child behind a façade of easy going, droll charm.

"That you are a hero," Kevan answered generously.

"I don't know about that," Jaime admitted. To which Tywin silently agreed.

"Why did you tell no one?" his uncle asked, voice suddenly turning far far harsher and condemning than he ever used with Jaime.

"Would it have mattered? They saw what they wanted to see that day."

"My son. My son the ' _Kingslayer'_. Yes. Yes it would have mattered," the Father of House Lannister declared with icy hot vigor. That deed had stained his son, stained him, stained all of House Lannister.

"You wanted to see a letter, father. Here it is," Jaime stated, closing himself off to reason and duty as always.

The bundled parchment was thick. Seal intact. Tywin broke the heavy wax stamp. Immediately four smaller letters fell out; labelled: #1 - Ser Jaime, #2 – Lord Tywin, #3 – Ser Jaime, and #4 – Lord Tywin. There was writing on the inside of the packet.

 _Lord Tywin, I hope this packet of letters finds you hale and in good spirits. Please forgive the odd nature of my correspondence. Some of it pertains directly to your son, Ser Jaime; who I hope has arrived safely at Casterly Rock. Please open the numbered and named letters within in the order identified and in each other's presence. Robert Baratheon._

It appears our King wishes to play a game," Tywin announced. He handed the number one noted letter over to Jaime.

He smirked in accepting it and demolishing the wax; followed by a sarcastic snort of "Ha!" and Jaime flinging the brief missive down on the table in front of Tywin. The father picked up that which had not amused his son.

 _Ser Jaime Lannister,_

 _I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of valiant deeds performed in the defense of the Iron Throne and the Realm at great risk to yourself, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag._

 _Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."_

 _In the Seven's light of your actions in saving the City of King's Landing from utter destruction, I can think of no knight more deserving of being this new Order's first, honorable member._

 _Respectfully,_

 _Ser Robert Baratheon_

Tywin perused the words, noting the potential trap inherent in the phrase ' _observe the statutes of this honorable Order_ ' when this non-existent Stag's club could not possible have any so called statutes yet. Though signing the letter as Ser instead of as King had been an unexpectedly deft touch. "Not a game, my goodson is looking for a new toy."

He sighed and then opened up the letter numbered two and addressed to him.

 _Lord Tywin Lannister,_

 _I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of your long, arduous, and successful succor of the Iron Throne and the Realm as Hand of the King, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable lord and knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag._

 _Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."_

 _For your many years of dutiful service, I can think of no better gift than uniting honorable father and son in brotherhood._

 _Respectfully,_

 _Ser Robert Baratheon_

"What did it say, Tywin?" Kevan asked cautiously, after his older brother did nothing visible for more than a minute – a normally dangerous sign.

It took another moment for Tywin to feel assured of himself. "The King provides a gesture that he hopes will rend the rift within our house," he said rigidly, as to not reveal the depths of his anger.

"Oh?" Jaime asked uncaringly.

"I am to become a member of Robert's drinking and whoring club as well."

"Hahahahahaha," burst Jaime. "Surely Tyrion will be asked next. Hahahahaha."

Tywin's fist slammed on the table. "Open your letter!" The Lion roared.

His son obliged, without quite Petyr Baelish level of impudence.

Then.

CRASH!

The desk split nearly in twain as two exceptionally strong arms powered down into the oak, shattering it.

"Fuck him! I'll kill him. He can't do this to me. That wretch! I'll split his fat belly and crush his pea skull! GODSDAMNIT! NO! I WON'T ALLOW IT! NEVER!" Jaime raged. His tantrum threw him about the room like a hurricane. No piece of furniture was safe. He eventually stopped articulating words and simply screamed nonsensically to accompany the path of destruction.

Kevan quickly backed up into an unlit hearth, to put distance and hopefully enough safe room between himself and his beloved nephew.

Tywin hardly moved, observing his son act on as pure a selfish hatred as any tantrum the boy had ever thrown as a child. When the violence moved sufficiently away, he leaned forward just enough to pick up the crumbled letter off the detritus strewn floor.

 _Ser Jaime,_

 _You are a great knight. You had the moral courage to do what I dare say no other knight in the entire Seven Kingdoms would have, should have done, were they in your boots. You took the words of your oath as a knight over the words you swore to become a Kingsguard._

 _I salute you with the utmost respect._

 _However, I must sadly point out to you that in a different regard, you failed your oath as a Kingsguard. For sixteen years I have mostly breathed, walked, and slept within King's Landing and the Red Keep. Not once, as was your duty, did you ever warn me that large quantities of wildfire lay sitting about, waiting just one minor accident, to break open and threaten my life, your King's life, with green fiery death._

 _The good you have given to the realm is greater than the possible evil that might have erupted, so I will neither condemn you nor seek to punish you except in the following two minor regards._

 _As of this moment, you are hereto removed as a member of the Kingsguard. Please dispose of your white cloak with the honor it deserves._

 _And second, for the remainder of your life, you are no longer allowed purchase within the walls of King's Landing._

 _Please do not take this badly. I believe my judgment fair. And hope that in time you see it that way too._

 _Live a long and prosperous life, Jaime Lannister, as heir and future lord of Casterly Rock._

 _Proclaimed in the year 298, by Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

For perhaps the first time since his beloved Joanna was alive, Tywin Lannister genuinely smiled.


	12. Part 11 - Baiting But Not Bedding

The praying mantis like mating dance I had started with Cersei took on a near every other day rhythm during the near two week journey from Darry to the Twins. First, "Robert" pays attention to his "wife." If she shows signs at breakfast of having recuperated sufficiently from the last tango (e.g., she is at breakfast and willing to talk to me), Cersei is begged by my utmost sincere ass kissing to spend at least part of the day riding beside me. Whereupon if "Yes" is the answer, my brown-nosery increases exponentially and I both complement her (looks, clothes, hair, riding skill, parenting, jewelry, cleverness, etc.) and ask her opinions on matters of Westeros import. I listen very intently, doing my poor male best to never interrupt her as she speaks. And I ask relevant questions for clarification or additional "wisdom", never as a point of doubt, to prove I was in fact paying attention to every word out of those luscious, luscious, vile lips.

Second, at that day's dinner, whether at an inn or in some "wholly inappropriate for a Queen" holdfast, the worship of her goddess-hood carries on. And if after all this amount of playing good boy "Robert," Cersei continues to show, well usually not exactly interest, say tolerance of me, then I oh so politely attempt to extend my ample presence to her sleeping chamber. Once ensconced – never a sure thing with Cersei – sometimes there is flattery, occasionally playful teasing, and the one time when I even brought a too handsome and conceited singer to serenade the lioness in her den.

Twice I misread Cersei badly enough I did not see the slap until her claws were raking my cheek. Or maybe she was just too tired or ill-tempered to continue her play acting towards "Robert" to its inevitable, hoped for, conclusion. Or maybe she simply was on her period. Who the fuck knows, its Cersei Lannister we are talking about? And I'm a clueless man with limited social skills when dealing with beautiful, strong willed women (or just about anyone).

But the times when I sensed the mood was right and "No One" came out with his silk ribbon, those alluring deep green eyes became easier and easier to read in the brief moment before she was blindfolded: heightened tension between desire and loathing. Other than the introductory visual deprivation move, I never used the same foreplay trick twice in a row. Pure kissing, lips and neck. Just licking, fondling, and nibbling those lovely, lovely breasts and exquisitely sensitive nipples, with or without her top on. Caressing her flanks and belly and thighs and ass through her sheer undergarments. Tied up. Not tied up. And then walking away, or threatening to. Until …

Only when she pleaded, clutching at or pressing her sweaty, magnificent body again my cockstand, would my lips or fingers return to visit her moist cleft. Those rare moments I felt like a God! Of course I knew she might have been faking. But I pretended that that couldn't possibly be the case. I was a God after all.

Still, hard as it is to imagine, and it was hard (pun fully intended), my pants never once came off. Then she would have imagined she had won. And I? I would have lost, but not in any way Cersei would have understood. Perhaps I was putting too fine of a morally pointless Bill Clinton like legal distinction on what qualified as sexual relations. If Westeros didn't kill me first, I would one day break my wedding vows; just not with _her_. Besides, without Jaime around to illicitly scratch that last itch I left her with, keeping Cersei hot and bothered all the way to Winterfell helped the narrative threads I was hoping to merge.

* * *

There were also subtler ways of improving "Robert's" standing in Cersei's eyes. Castle Darry's woodworkers had done me proud.

* * *

"Haha, watch this father!"

Click-click

"A double jump, excellent move, Tommen."

"Knight me," the boy said proudly.

Purposefully playing "Squires" poorly was pretty dull, after the first dozen times. Nevertheless , it was still much more entertaining than having to listen to my youngest "son" talk about incessantly about kittens. Would a little character development with this one have killed you, George?

I shuddered a little at the sudden realization Tommen might start naming his knighted checkers things like, "Ser Puss."

* * *

"A long time ago in a land far far away over the Sunset Sea, it is a time of rebellion against an evil Witch King and his dark magic wielding minions. A secret order of noble sorcerer knights, known as the Jedi and long thought to have been destroyed, are reborn and now strike from hidden holdfasts against the forces of wicked Plagueis."

"At least it isn't a story about Aerys again," Joffrey muttered.

"Shhhhh" both Myrcella and Tommen hushed their older, bullying brother.

"The Jedi have won a victory of sorts, but with it comes great danger. The Shadowbinder Jyn, at the cost of her own life, has stolen the Witch King's plans for an ultimate weapon: a giant mechanical steel dragon capable of burning whole cities down."

"Why not a real dragon?"

"Joff," pleaded Tommen.

"The plans have been smuggled aboard Princess Leia's yacht and she races home over the seas towards her City of Alderaan with them. But she is pursued by the Witch King's fleet under the command of his greatest general, Lord Vader. And this is where our story starts, as the Princess' small ship is bombarded by fire balls thrown from the catapults of Vader's mighty war galley the Star Saber."

* * *

"Father, why does the game end when the Queen is captured? And not the King?"

"Well, Myrcella, if a King can't protect his own Queen, what good is he? He deserves to lose. Now stop asking questions and make a move. Or else I'll think you're stalling."

"Alright," the eight year old agreed a bit grumpily. A finger tapped a piece slowly while she looked to see how I'd react.

"Are you going to move your bish … ahem … lord? Or will you let my man-at-arms take him?" It was rather a no brainer move for even my amateur eye. The cleverest thing I'd done with my game play was just to rename Chess to the more Westeros appropriate sounding "Maidenvault."

* * *

"Father, you're better than this," whined an exasperated Joffrey.

"Your shield and Ser Aron have made an excellent start in your training. But one day when you are a knight, you will have squires of your own to train. And the best way to learn how to do something is to teach another, isn't that right Sandor?"

"Killing a man is the best way to learn how to kill the next man," the Hound replied scornfully.

"Why would I bother to teach a pimple brained squire anything?"

"Come on Joffrey, stab at me again," I commanded.

The boy rolled his eyes, then lightning fast his blunt tourney blade feinted out.

I bit and shifted … no …

Tang!

I didn't pull my shield back fast enough. But at least I disrupted the thrust. Probably only a flesh wound. "Now what did I do wrong?" I asked patiently.

"Father!" the tall little shit whined again.

Parent time with the psychopath and learning swordplay 101. Two birds with one stone. What could go wrong?

* * *

The wheelhouse thudded along over what seemed to my big ass a particularly well rutted section of the Kingsroad. If the lioness wouldn't come out to play, sometimes the Stag must seek her out in her lair.

"C7," Myrcella called out

"Poo! You sank my war galley," an unhappy Tommen exclaimed.

"I got winners," "Robert" announced merrily to his "children."

Cersei pretended not to notice what was going on, but I caught her frequent quick glimpses over her needlework to me and the "children."

* * *

"I'm not interested tonight, Robert," she said meaningfully as my hand slid suggestively along her thigh beneath the dinner table. The signals had been admittedly mixed all night as we ate side by side in the Inn, no lordling to placate in his holdfast by sitting him and his dreary wife between the two of us.

"Oh, I wasn't terribly interested in that tonight either," I said breezily, announcing a very clear departure from where my interests had in fact been very tightly focused of late. Cersei stiffened ever so slightly in surprise, and I imagined displeasure, at not being wanted by her dolt of a husband.

Oh I was the hunter and she the prey I desperately stalked in the game we pleasurably kept replaying, but in my approach I had shown that she always had right of first refusal. Though, to be fair, if she didn't invoke it, trying to refuse once the hunt had commenced, was much tougher for the doe.

I debated feigning a yawn, but decided against it. "I thought a quiet night. Just the two of us."

"Ha. Quiet? You are a pathetic liar, Robert," she smirked, apparently reassured of the power she held over me and Big Robert.

"To you? My Queen? The unmatched Cersei? Never!" I faux roared.

The smile of triumph widened.

"I was just thinking of a bottle of wine, the two of us, and perhaps a game of Backcastle."

Those emerald eyes narrowed suspiciously … unhappily; triumph now in question. "You want to play one of your new children's games … with me?"

"Oh, we could place a wager on each game … to make things interesting." My hand slipped back onto her thigh.

A wicked little smile pursed those lips. "What sort of wager?"

"hhhhhmmmmmn," I muttered with exaggeration, free hand stroking my beard. "Loser must take off a piece of clothing?"

Cersei's peals of laughter caught everyone in the room's attention.

Score one for strip backgammon … I hoped.

* * *

"I was thinking of asking Lord Walder to send an assortment of Freys with us to Winterfell," I proposed to Cersei seemingly out of the blue. Our caravan was off the Kingsroad and only another day's travel from the Twins. To make the journey faster, what with this originally unplanned for stop, the wheelhouse and a smaller contingent had continued on. We would meet back up with them later, near the start of the Neck.

"Gods, Robert, where are you getting these ideas?" No attempt at hiding her contempt for my evident stupidity in her voice – always the firm basis for a sound fake marital relationship.

I shrugged. On horseback, can anyone ever really see anyone else shrugging? Then decided a stronger response was needed. "Why do you think I'm asking you now, woman?!" I said with some aggression, but not too much. Bluster to remind her I am Robert, but not so to remind her of her hatred of Robert.

"You certainly didn't ask me about adding Tyrion to the Small Council," she blistered back.

Damn harpy. She wouldn't let that go. She really, really, really hated her non-lover brother. She would never let the vitriol go. I couldn't wait #SARCASM! for her to find out what I had done to Jaime. Gosh, that would go super swell when she found out.

For my sake, there better not be any damned raven from Casterly Rock waiting for her at the Twins. Jaime had probably already arrived; unless Littlefinger had arranged to off him. Win-win if that happened. Tywin could then aim his debt paying far from me and the rest of the realm. As for later on our journey, if Jaime lived ... no doubt I could get Ned to run interference on Westeros' equivalent of email for me once we got to Winterfell.

"Haven't you drunk and whored enough for the whole Small Council? To add that slut loving little sot! You …"

"ENOUGH!" the crowned stag roared. So many ways to respond … most of them not any good for my plans. Think fast. Think fast. In a quieter voice, "Tyrion won't be on the Small Council for ever. And I trust him more than Littlecock. He's probably been stealing us blind. If anyone is clever enough to figure out how, it's your grasping imp of a brother."

Cersei pouted. Then, begrudgingly, "He does have a low cunning to him," she admitted.

Words I swore Tyrion said about her in a _Clash of Kings_. I dropped my near hand down towards the road, going for the cheap, assuaging humor. "Very low."

She barked a laugh. Then, "How long must we abide his presence on the Small Council."

I laughed. "Oh Cersei, you are thinking too small."

Her face was caught half one way and half the next, not knowing whether I was mocking her or him.

"How long has your impish brother been hanging around the Red Keep?"

"Too long. Years," she said bitterly.

I nodded along with her. "Granted he loves Myrcella and Tommen dearly, but it's long since time he found a new home."

"Not Casterly Rock," she snarled.

I laughed again. "Tywin would rather kill Tyrion than know he would succeed him." That would logically leave Lancel as heir. Was that possibility even in her mind? Well surprise, bitch! I am definitely going to amp up pretty boy Lumpy's good qualities to you, but how? Ta-ta-ta, focus on the moment, Paul.

"Then where?" she openly pondered her hate.

"You will love this, Cersei," I declared with pride. "But keep it secret between us."

She looked at me skeptically.

"Promise," I prompted.

I saw the stubbornness start to swell in those beautiful eyes, the lovely nose clench, the skin on the flawless jawline tighten.

"You will love it," I repeated with an amused tone. "There is an heiress I can arrange his marriage to, so he'll have to move there," I added, putting a little honey in the pot. I watched as a battle fought itself across that beautiful, ugly face. Funny how often that happened.

"Very well, by the Seven I promise," she said in an aggrieved rush. "Who?!"

"What do you know of Tarth?" I asked with an amused smile.

"Tarth … why …" Cersei's eyes grew wider than I think I had yet to see them. The jaw dropped. Cersei was a stupid bitch when you got right down to it, but she damn well took her self-perceived job as Queen seriously and thus knew who all the major and most important lords all over Westeros were. Those lips made a huge "O." She snorted through that previously clenched nose. A sound started rumbling up from within that magnificent chest. "Brienne of Tarth?! Bwahahahahahahaha!" the lioness roared in delight, showing all her razor sharp incisors.


	13. Part 12 - Playing a Twin Game

Now that was a fucking castle. Or rather two of them, one on each end. Or maybe three, depending upon how one viewed the Water Tower which rose above the middle of the giant stone bridge across the swift flowing Green Fork. Unlike for poor, love struck, doomed Robb Stark, the walls of the Twins were not currently overflowing with the full levy of House Frey's bannermen. This was a royal visit; war by means other than battle.

"What a dreary place, fits in with the Frey's coin grubby hands," Cersei commented disparagingly.

Coming from the daughter of the gold of Casterly Rock, that last bit was rich. When I proposed this slight detour, I had found that with her father's animosity for his sister Genna's forced marriage to such scum, no "true" Lannister had ever since visited the Twins. I diplomatically refrained from mentioning that that edict clearly didn't apply to her Aunt.

Honestly, there was no surprise to the Lannister line. Tywin was both the paterfamilias and a man of stubborn peculiarities where his house was concerned. Facts and tendencies which I hoped to capitalize on. And the daughter was very much like the father she idolized. "Yet, we will smile and tell them how wonderful it is," I pointed out agreeably.

She simply snapped me her scornful "Duh" look, before continuing on with the mild for her rant. Not enough pageantry (e.g., respect) displayed for a royal visit. Blah, blah, blah. Freys all look like weasels and are sexual deviants. Blah, blah, blah. At Joffrey's name day tourney the pathetic Frey knights were easily defeated not just by the adequate Ser Loras but by a pair of hedge knights. Blah, blah, blah. The food was going to be so bad they might as well just save the effort and poison everyone straight out. Blah, blah, blah.

Cersei kept the running belittlement up until the moment the near two score honor guard of knights whom we had seen ride out the eastern gate of the Twins came within ear shot. Then she smiled and the golden light of the Lannister heaven above shown down upon those same quite weaselly faces.

The oldest of them, a grey beard plum in the middle front of the Frey gaggle, spoke first from a partial bow. "Your Graces, on behalf of my lord father, welcome to the Twins."

"My thanks, Ser Stevron. Many have been the time I wished to visit your noble House. It gladdens my heart that this day has finally come. I hope we will find Lord Walder in good health and fine spirits," I lied easily.

The aging knight smiled back. "He is, he is, your Grace. My lord father has recently arranged a new marriage contract for himself and looks eagerly forward to the wedding day."

I heard Cersei, or maybe just her horse, give a tiny snort. Ignoring it, I answered happily, "Glorious news, Ser. I shall gift him a present before we depart."

The announcement of the upcoming nuptials had not caught me by surprise; aside from mine own memories from the books, a steady flow of the latest "intel" on the Freys had made its way to the royal party ever since we had crossed the Trident. "Robert" was King; thus this caravan was his court. And though it was never hinted at in the books, even a reduced court had flunkies who did whatever flunkies do to ensure they can keep the comfortable sinecure of flunky-dom.

"And I have just the thing for a lord of his stature," I added, a certain Valyrian dagger with a dragon bone hilt that one Cersei free night I had hunted down in my voluminous baggage. Only I could appreciate the irony of my original intended use for it – "giving" it to Littlefinger should he survive Balon Greyjoy. However, gestures like that, unless protected by plot armor, could get a man killed in Westeros, so best to lose the temptation.

"How gracious, your Grace," Ser Stevron smirked back with the faux cheerfulness any mid-level manager gives to a corporate VP or enlisted man to an officer above the rank of captain.

"And will our presence be graced," I played along with the pun, "by my Queen's noble Aunt?" I queried.

An indistinct Frey beside and slightly back of Stevron nudged his mount forward. "Your Grace," he bowed. "I fear my lady mother and lord father are in the Westerlands at the moment." If ever there was evidence that Lannister genes were not the dominant half in the offspring of any normal mating, this one with his classic, unfortunate Frey looks was the poster child.

"Cousin Cleos, a pleasure to see you, nonetheless," Cersei deigned to speak ... politely. Again, Aunt Genna and Emmon Frey's absence had already been reported. "Are lovely Jeyne and your brave boys Tywin and Willem here as well?" she asked politely.

He bobbed his ferret face and weak chin. "Just my lady Jeyne, your Grace. My sons page in Casterly Rock."

The disappointing presence of not so bold Ser Cleos and his wife for company had also been expected. She was a Darry for Christ's sake, and where in SevenHells had we just come from? Of course we knew. Still, certain protocols were required of kings. "That's a damned shame then," I said with "Robert" loudness. I jerked a thumb generically somewhere behind me. "Your cousin Lancel is sure to be knighted in a year. Not too early to start searching for whose boots can fill his at putting my boots on for me," I japed weakly and then laughed like it was the funniest damn thing ever.

Everyone laughed appropriately like the good little suck ups they were to the crown, except for Cersei. I doubted the conniving bitch liked being reminded that her personal spy on me was not all that long for her service. But as with so many of the displeasing tidbits that arose in my conversation with her or around her, I had my reasons.

"Would your Grace care to come share bread and salt and mead with my lord father?" Ser Stevron asked, invoking the call to sacrosanct guest rights.

Sacrosanct my enormous arse! I involuntarily shivered.

* * *

There the evil old bastard sat on his intricately carved black oak high lordly throne, one gouty foot raised up to rest on a stool in front of him. "Your pardon, your Graces, if I neither stand nor bow," he wheezed.

Cersei looked put out at the possible display of blatant disrespect.

"Nonsense, Lord Walder," I bellowed. "What matters more is how well your cock works, eh?" I laughed. "Congratulations on your engagement, my lord. What number will she be? Six?"

"Eight. And …"

"And I'm sure you'll put a brat in her belly before the year is out. What?"

"Yes, what hangs between my legs works well enough. My little pudding will have no complaints."

I laughed in conspiratorially delight with the sick bastard. Then extended my authority. "You and you!" I shouted, pointing at a couple of Walder's stouter looking progeny. "Stop disrespecting your father. Grab two chairs and put them either side of him."

Startled, several jumped to it.

"No! The largest ones. And be sure to snuggle them in close to your lord father. Your King and your Queen would have words with our loyal friend."

The wizened weasel licked his lips in uncertainty, seeming wanting to say something as I usurped his authority over his own great hall.

I didn't give him a chance to regain his equilibrium. "Parts of the realm. The Riverlands and the North are not doing their proper duty, Lord Walder. Hells' bells man, even mine own family, aside from myself and my dear queen, are failing in their duty. Come Cersei, we must hear our friend's advice. Move faster!" I then shouted at the louts lugging the chairs.

At least she didn't roll her eyes at me as I took her hand and led her straight up to the low dais and Weasel One. Cersei regally extended her hand. Old Walder knew what to do and leaned forward to give it and her rings a kiss of … submission? Acknowledgement? What the hell does kissing the ring signify anyway? "Good man," I chirped loudly and smacked him on his thin, stooped shoulder. This body could snap that desiccated twig with hardly an effort if I wanted to.

"What duties are they not performing?" he asked in a petulant voice.

I settled Cersei into her chair, from which she leaned over towards the randy goat to say, "They are as my royal husband has explained to me sins of omission rather than sins of commission."

"What is that to me?" he complained as he stared right at her teats. Couldn't blame the lecherous old fart, I did that enough myself. "Sounds like a problem for a septon, not a lord."

As I sat down in mine own high backed chair on the other side of him, I thundered. "If they were treason, I'd have them before the Iron Throne to answer for it. And I'd be glad for the whole realm to hear it." The nearly bald and very pink head snapped away from my wife's chest at my loud words. And then I winked at him while tilting my head obviously about the room.

Walder Frey knew how to take a clue. "Leave you wretches. The King and Queen wish to hear my counsel in private. Out! Out! Out!" he shouted with malicious glee. "You'd all be so lucky as to find yourselves acceptable enough to the King to hold his pot while he pisses in it." Then in an only slightly quieter tone. "They are waiting for me to die, but I keep disappointing them," he chuckled with great satisfaction.

I remembered he had paraphrased those words to Catelyn, probably a stock insult. The room at last cleared. I saw a goblet of wine on a nearby table and wished I'd thought to get one of Clan Frey to serve me before they left. And now I couldn't dare serve myself. It's not always so good to be the king. I licked my lips sadly. Can't think of everything.

"Now what has you so bothered about duty … your Graces? Speak bluntly to me and I'll be blunt back to you."

"My brother Stannis won't plant even a second crop in the field he owns and Renly refuses to even own a field. Disgraceful! Lucky for House Baratheon the Queen provides heirs." HA! AS IF! How I said that with a straight face either right then or when Cersei and I worked out our strategy for tag teaming the ancient wretch, I'll never know. "But there are more dangerous failures of duty in the Realm?" I grumbled.

"House Tully and House Whent are nearly extinct," Cersei added quickly, to direct the conversation where we wanted it to go.

"What's that to me? Never liked Lord Hoster. He never comes to my weddings. He'd rather piss on me than come to this next one. Just you see. Is it my fault his boy, who does not like me one whit better either, won't marry? I suppose he might have a bastard or two lying in some village slut's hovel."

I near snapped the arms off my chair. Why did the shit have to go fucking bastard on me? My Cersei Deathcon Alert System instantly turned a redder shade.

"We want to encourage the Tullys to get busy … planting their seed in ... true born fashion."

"It's all Hoster's fault. He couldn't make his brother marry. What makes you think he can get the boy to? And who did Hoster himself marry? A Whent," he spat in disgust. "Everyone knows there is no soil in a Whent for the seed to take."

"You married a Whent," Cersei pointed out.

"I did, fool me. But I already had thirteen sons. And when my Whent died, I married again. When his did, he stayed put in Riverrun and is still playing with his useless cock for all I know." The insult made Cersei smile, for all she hated the Frey.

"Worse, Edmure Tully is the heir to Harrenhal as well. What think you, my lord, will happen when Lady Shiela dies?" I asked.

The Lord of the Twins was quiet for a moment. "War, most like," he decided. "Bracken and Blackwood will take it as an excuse to fight. They always do. Hoster's too ill to intervene. And no one respects the boy."

"And if Edmure Tully dies before he has a son? What then of the whole Riverlands?"

"More war, I suppose," he begrudgingly admitted, tone clearly showing how little he cared. "That will be your problem," he then snickered at me.

"And who's side will you be on, Lord Walder," Cersei asked sweetly.

"The winning side," he cackled, then perhaps thinking a new. "I see your point with Stannis and Renly. Both bungholes," a cut that drew mirth from Cersei, "who don't know what to do with a woman. Though I don't know that I would want to stick it in that Florent woman either. All ears and beard. Why …"

The continuing slights were amusing but I could see the rabbit hole of Cersei's anger the conversation could drop if the wrong slight were spoken. "About the North," I interrupted.

"What of it?" he snapped. "I thought we were talking of the Riverlands or your brothers. The ice and cold interest me not at all. Though I had a First Woman once, warmed up sweet to me she did."

"There are several major Houses of the North that suffer the same problem as the Tullys and Whents," Cersei offered by way of an introductory explaination.

"House Manderly has only two middle aged sons and two unmarried teenaged granddaughters. House Cerwyn has just a spinster daughter and a barely grown son. House Hornwood has only one son and a pair of Tallhart nephews. House Bolton has only one bastard son," I detailed.

"And you have twenty true born sons," Cersei added meaningfully.

"Twenty two," he proudly corrected.

"And how many grandsons?" I prodded lightly.

"More than your Graces have fingers and toes."

"We need your advice," I said.

"We need your help," Cersei said.

"For the good of the Realm, to avoid pointless wars, we need the North and the Riverlands to breed like Freys. What might you suggest, Lord Walder?" I asked with a verbal wink and a nod.

Walder Frey sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Greedy, clever eyes looked back and forth to the royalty parked either side of his withered form. "Haha. Hoster Tully will shit dust when he hears," he laughed with a satisfied smirk. A long, calculating pause. "There wouldn't be a Baratheon to …"

"No," Cersei icily cut him off; though when we'd discussed our strategy for this meeting, the vindictive lioness had been more than happy to throw Shireen under Walder's bus. I pacified her by saying I'd think about it, but only as a last resort; she knew how pig headed Stannis could be.

"Ah, had to be asked, didn't I?" Walder Frey acknowledged without a hint of guilt at trying to put his House even farther forward. "So what's in it for me?"

The rest was just haggling.

* * *

Two days later, when the royal party left the Twins, a raven baring a message sealed with the crowned stag sigil had already flown for Winterfell, commanding Ned Stark to gather a council of Northern Lords. And the royal party itself had been near doubled in size with a bevy of unmarried Freys, male and female, and their servants.


	14. Part 13 - The Taming of the Freyspawn

Appealing to Cersei's inner bitch was a tricky thing. She had been receptive to the idea of sticking other houses with "Freyspawn," as she labelled them. And she had played her part quite brilliantly with me in enticing the old pervert/homicidal maniac to play ball. A great, vicious joke to perpetrate on the stupid and unworthy; basically, anyone not named Lannister.

Unfortunately, for her fickle self, that meant co-existing, of sorts, with the low born, jumped up, greedy scum of Walder Frey's seed for the next month and more. That, her lioness pride would barely tolerate. Upon departure from the Twins, without the safety of the wheelhouse to retreat to those first few days, her snubbing of the ten "not-so noble" daughters of House Frey (three actual daughters, two granddaughters, three great granddaughters, and two great grandnieces) was quite blatant.

They were NOT to speak to her. They were NOT to look at her. They were NOT to eat the same food or breath the same air as her. They WERE to be constantly belittled for their lack of looks, poor fashion sense, smallfolk-ish sounding Riverlands' accents, horrible manners, and general stupidity. If Cersei were drowning, she'd rather die than accept a helping hand.

And to have anything to do with Myrcella? Ha! Dream on. Fifty lashes from the Hound to even think about it. Which was too bad for Myrcella, for even though she was five years younger than the youngest female Freyspawns, Arwyn and Zia, the young girl craved new female companionship than the same old same old of the last thirty plus days. Robert's traveling court did not lend itself much to youthful playmates.

However, being treated like shit was a thing the female members of House Frey were quite used to; so being ignored, yelled at, snubbed, and threatened were exactly the sort of waters Freyspawn were accustomed to swimming in. Not daring to show a whit of interest in the girls for any reason imaginable and unimaginable, for fear of Cersei's considerable wrath (I was still mounting my charm offensive after all); I at least was able to get a report on them once a day through my new squire, Olyvar.

He was another point of contention in the ever altering dynamic between scalding hot (both good and bad), lukewarm, and icy cold of the King and Queen. Despite all the obvious advantages being thrown Walder's way by the deal we offered him, the wrinkled old tit's pride would have scotched the thing if one of his ilk wasn't at least made a royal squire or a lady-in-waiting. There was no way in SevenHells that Cersei would have accepted a weasel into her service; and we both knew it. So I gracefully made the "sacrifice," laughing secretly to myself because Olyvar was who I exactly wanted as a middle manager on Team Robert. And did my "sacrifice" earn me any gratitude from the bitch, fuck no; just one more thing to complain about when she felt like trashing me.

Needless to say, the new come presence of all the Freyspawn in the royal party threw an immediate weasel sized wrench in my "romantic" endeavors. So after the first brutal turn down, the wooing of Cersei slipped to the backburner, which was ok with my tentative plans in regards to the "missus." It gave me reason to command pretty boy Lumpy to spend every possible moment with his cousin under the express order to do "whatever" it takes to keep her happy. Hopefully something useful for later application would start brewing there between the too beautiful cuzes.

The second day out of the Twins, I offered an apology of sorts for Cersei's bad behavior to the Freyspawn leadership committee Walder had assigned to accompany his marriage bait. That got a good chuckle out of the top weasel, and Walder's third son, Aenys, "Worry not, your Grace. We all well know Cleos' mother, the Lady Genna. Blood tells." Hosteen, the fighting Frey, and Symond, the Master Frey Whisperer, joined in their brother's laughter. Cleos wisely kept mum about the disparagement of his mum and his cousin.

The leadership committee was not all that I had hoped for. Walder had refused my request to have Ser Stevron come as the senior Frey representative on the grounds of my blatant desire to turn his heir against him. Likewise, I had put my very, very large foot down and forbidden Black Walder's inclusion amongst either the leadership or the marriage bait. All-in-all, they seemed pretty much the infighting, untrustworthy lot I had expected.

* * *

It took four days skirting the southern end of the marshy Neck to exit the expanse of Frey territory and rejoin the Kingsroad; where miraculously, the wheelhouse was found safe, sound, and promptly. Hooray, respite from Cersei. That night, around a blazing campfire over which huge hunks of freshly slaughtered meat were roasting, I had a little pre-dinner conversation with both the Freyspawn leadership committee and the ten most eligible House Frey bachelors; Seven help Westeros. Besides myself, the only non-Freys present were Joffrey, the Hound, and the useless Ser Boros.

"Whatever Walder told you to expect from this trip to the North, you can forget it," I announced loudly. This caused much shifting of bodies and exchanging of looks. "One or two of you might find an heiress. Or an unmarried, homely older sister with a comfortable situation in a fine holdfast. I'll do my best for any of you that bring me the scent of the hunt, I promise. But that is not why you are here with me."

"Then .. uh … why are here … uh … your Grace?" a neither old nor young Frey relative named Donnel Haigh asked hesitantly.

"Because no one likes House Frey, that's why," I declared bluntly. No one muttered a contrary peep. "Oh, you are tolerated because your house is strong. And there are those willing to take your lord father's coin when it suits their needs. And that is why you are here. I want the assholes in the Riverlands who aren't doing enough of their duty to see that House Frey has gained my royal favor. I want to scare them, I want to scare them into doing their duty."

"What duty … uh … is that, your Grace?" Ser Steffon, grandson of Ser Stevron, asked.

"Marriage and making sprogs, idiot," snapped Aenys.

"Lord Stark's wife is Catelyn Tully," Symond explained further.

The smarter ones of the lot nodded their heads in understanding at the closing of the circle.

"Now Lord Stark is my oldest and dearest friend. You will all be on your best behavior. Treat the women courteously. No disrespecting their Old Gods. No brawling. No stealing. No intriguing. No lying … within reason. If I hear of someone fucking this up, I will personally crush your cock and balls under my warhammer." That last bit was followed by a menacing glare passed all around the fire.

"What if we are insulted? Can we not defend our honor? I will not be slurred by any man!" Hosteen declared hotly, not bowing to my death stare. Bastard.

"You may demand satisfaction, but only to be done under the eyes of Lord Stark; and with his agreement, under the supervision of his Master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. Note the Ser. If I think you are in the right, I will grant you the honor of having one of my white cloaks attend you as a Second. Satisfied."

Hosteen's dull face obviously showed the effort of thinking about what I'd said. A few moments of ponderous calculating later, "Yes, your Grace."

"Alright. Now, for those of you who play your parts well, if there is no sweet Northern honey pot for you to find a home with; I promise you a suitable post in King's Landing or the Crownlands when we return. No more living at the Twins under Walder's sufferance, if you so choose."

"What about our sisters, your Grace?" Ser Perwyn chimed in protectively.

"Honorably asked," I commended him. "I suspect we will have better luck finding a horny Northmen wanting some exotic Southern honey for a bride than we will for you sad lot," I joked amiably. They chuckled dutifully along like proper medieval sycophants used to living on the largesse of others. "Now as my wife has been a mean cunt to them, it might take a while longer to find positions out of her sight in King's Landing, but you have my word, we'll find a proper place for any unplucked rose." Very few of them were actually pretty enough to be called a rose. One said what one must.

Most didn't seem to give a fig to my answer, so score a point for Perwyn. Time to return him the favor and rattle the rest of the bastards. "Now you all know I've taken on Olyvar as my squire, so you can spy on me."

Mouths dropped or gulped. A few muttered unconvincing 'Nos.' However, neither Aenys nor Symond, the most senior and the most wily of the Freyspawn, so much as blinked at the accusation. Players. "Which is fine by me. I'd expected nothing else and would have been woefully disappointed in old Walder if he hadn't insisted. But there will be some rules around Olyvar. I don't want to see or hear every godsdamned one of you whoresons pestering him day and night. That'll just piss me off and I'll have to crush a bunch of you with my hammer. Understood?"

A bunch of weaselly faces nodded. Aenys and Symond still showed nothing.

"So pick one of you. I don't care which. He can stop by once a day and collect all the gossip. 'Who did the King get drunk with last night? Which girl's bum did he pinch? What lords has he been cursing in private?' Then its up to that prick to pass it along to Aenys and Symond first, and then to the rest of you bastards as he sees fit. Personally, I'd hold out for bribes, whoever is chosen. Now which of you useless cow's udders is it going to be?!" I challenged.

That got them hopping and shouting and cursing and even resulted in a few shoves. I let it run on for several minutes, enjoying the chaos as I drank from my wineskin. A score of foxes squabbling in a hen house with only one chicken. So good. I winked over at Joffrey, who seemed utterly confused by my approach to the weasels. "ENOUGH!" I finally bellowed. "You're all useless as tits on a gelding!"

I turned to face Olyvar where he stood at the outer edge of the flickering light cast by the fire's flame. He didn't look well. Attention was seldom sought in the Twins, cause it was almost always bad news. "Boy, which one of your house would you normally talk to the most." The shadows weren't enough to hide the nervous bob of his adam's apple. "The truth," I growled.

"Perwyn, your Grace," he acknowledged, anointing his brother and confirming the books' opinion of the young knight as one of the very few "good" Freys.

Excellent. I love it when a plan comes together. I pivoted to the nominee. "You're it, Ser. Any complaints?"

"No, your Grace," the young knight said quickly.

"Any of the rest of you?" I challenged with my loud, impatient Robert voice. There was sure to be resentment. I wanted to see if any were stupid enough to manifest it.

A weak chorus of "Nos" was the less than truthful answer.

"Good. Now Perwyn, I'll be sure to grab a hold of you on one of your visits and bribe you myself. Understand?"

He looked confused. "Nooooooo," he admitted.

"Even better. Have Symond explain it to you some time. Is that roast ready yet? I'm starved."

One of them, Alesander? Tobiat? I couldn't tell, so many of the weasels looked a like in the dim light, leaned forward and sliced into a thick piece of belly. "Almost, your Grace."

I licked my lips, took another sip from my wineskin, and then made one last declaration. "When we are in Winterfell, some lord will almost certainly try to bribe each one of you for information. Probably more than just one lord. Maybe even a lady or two. Let them, but only after the usual haggling over the price of it. Try not to tell them too much. If you can, say you'll get back to them with more. Then pass the news of who, how much, and what they wanted back to me through Perwyn and Olyvar. I'll be sure to double their bribe to you too, but don't be a cheap bastard and not give Perwyn and Olyvar a cut of it. Now serve me, I don't care how bloody the meat is, your King is hungry," I commanded.

* * *

"Father, I don't understand. You don't trust the Freys. You bribe them for their service, encourage them to take bribes from others, and then expect them to tell you the truth. They _owe_ you fealty as King. You can kill them if they displease you. If they lie to you," Joffrey said, putting together several different but still related concepts he normally wouldn't necessarily have associated together. Of course, his voice had put the most emphasis on the killing part.

"I trust Ned Stark with my life. I trust Ned Stark with your life. I trust most Freys to do what is in their own best interests. Not all trusts are equal. But if you are clever, you can use both kinds of trust to your own benefit. Learn to tell the difference, Joffrey; it might save your life," I grunted.

"But you are King," he protested.

"Damn!" I'd stumbled as we walked in the dark back towards our tents. "Olyvar," I called to my squire. "Do you trust your family?"

"Uh, some of them, your Grace," he admitted warily.

"But you deal with all of them, right?"

"Yes. When I must."

"Even those you trust the least?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"And how do you deal with them?"

"Very, very carefully."

"The answer to every problem isn't my hammer or Ser Ilyn's blade or Aerys Targaryen's wildfire, Joffrey." Why did I bother? "Go to your tent and think about it before you fall asleep. We can talk more in the morning."

"Good night, father," the punk agreed reluctantly and then sheared off into the black with his Hound on his heels.

"G'night." At least the twerp hadn't asked me about why I'd called his mother a cunt. He'd probably tell her in the morning anyway, I thought with a resigned sigh.

* * *

I groaned in relief as Olyvar helped pull my boots off. My belly continued to pose a problem in bending over. The drink hadn't helped either. A little too much again. "Thanks," I muttered, closing my eyes. I felt good. So easy to just relax. So easy.

"Will there be anything else, your Grace?"

"Do you have any questions about tonight, Olyvar?"

"I … that is … no, your Grace."

"Too bad, you should. Don't be shy. Ask away. I won't bite," I prodded, cracking my heavy eyelids open and lifting my thick arms and hands behind my equally large noggin.

"What is it you want from me, exactly, your Grace."

"As much real trust as you can give me. Hopefully, as we get to know each other better, that will increase."

He nodded his head thoughtfully. "I'll do my best, your Grace."

How much. How much. How much. Patience. Don't swamp him yet. He and Perwyn and Roslin are the only Freys worth a shit. No, be fair. There are a fair number of competent ones. But this boils down to trust. "That's all I can ask, Olyvar. Big change this, for you. Have Tyrek and Lumpy been giving you a hard time?"

"Errr, Tyrek has been pleasant."

I chuckled. Good old Lumpy. The Battle of Blackwater Rush and his own incestuous guilt haven't beaten the arrogance out of him yet. And they never would. Excellent. Time to keep the tension going between them. "Well tomorrow when Joffrey gives us our "lesson", you can match up with Lumpy. Don't go easy on him. That would piss me off. Sleep well, lad," I wished, dismissing him.


	15. Part 14 - Stretching the Neck

"Anything?"

"No, your Grace," the returning outrider answered.

I pursed me lips to contain the disappointment rising within.

The Neck was one big ass bug invested bog of smelly, oozing crap. We'd been on it, slightly elevated by the worst maintained portion of the Kingsroad I'd yet ridden on, for two days so far. With another eight to ten days on it to look forward to according to those in the know, depending on how many washed out sections we'd need to carefully navigate the also big assed wheelhouse over.

"Ser Aenys! Ser Symond! Attend me!" I commanded, letting my horse continue at a plodding walk.

The call went down the line. Soon enough Weasel One and Weasel Two unctuously greeted their sovereign. It's annoying to be the king sometimes. I had to verbally stomp their sycophancy down before I could get to the matter at hand, "What dealings do you have with the Crannog men?"

The question couldn't have been a surprise to them. I had after all ordered both the van and the rear riders to search for any sign of a swamp man, just one, in order to pass along the fact that I had a message for their lord. Still, for once I would have liked to see something I could read on their poker faces besides the obligatory false fawning which not even Freyspawn seemed immune performing.

"Occasionally they float some goods out of their swamp by raft down the head waters of the Green Fork. Seldom do they come as far as the Twins; selling off their poor wares at villages along the banks to the North of us," Aenys replied.

"Is there any way you have to signal them? To get them to come to a parley?"

"Why would we ever want to speak with the likes of them?" Symond added with a strong current of contempt.

"I first met Lord Howland Reed at the Tourney at Harrenhal. He became a particular friend of Lyanna Stark's and fought alongside Ned Stark as we overthrew the Mad King. The two of them were the only survivors of battle against Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent. Remind me again where you and your house were in those days, and then ask me that question again," I dared them. HULK SMASH!

"Your pardon, your Grace. We did not mean to disparage the noble House Reed." "It's just that the crannogmen keep so much to themselves and we never have any way or reason to journey into the Neck to seek them out for … for … trade or news." Well, discomfort would do for a novel facial expression from these two well trained weasels.

"Go make yourselves useful, Sers," I dismissed them curtly. I'ts not so fun being a disappointed king.

* * *

No inns or holdfasts on the Neck, that was for damn sure. Camping every night. Rations, aside from the wine, all rather dull after a while. And with Cersei still in her Freyspawn induced snit, I was seeing little of her. Pros and cons that. Lancel played his part and periodically kept me abreast of her moods. Or perhaps what she wanted me to know of her moods.

Unfortunately, I saw even less of her at night time. No foreplay for "No One" makes "Robert" a cantankerous monarch. Though perhaps a safer one. Also pros and cons that. It did give me time to get to know my new squire a bit better, and vice-versa.

* * *

It turned out Olyvar and Lancel were surprisingly well matched at arms. Olyvar a couple years older and thicker about the body, though shorter in height. Lancel tall and willowy, but surprisingly demonstrating some of the Lannister strength the fucking Kingslayer was renowned for. Lumpy had the better combat technique, from what my amateur eye could detect; undoubtedly learned from the better skilled swordsmen hanging about the Red Keep and Casterly Rock, as opposed to the godsforsaken Twins. Olyvar, however, was a true tricky weasel with the blade, often using an exaggerated sloppiness to lure Lumpy into over aggressive mistakes.

At the end of every day's ride, I made sure the pair went at it under the "tutelage" of Joffrey once camp was made. With the pair so close in skill and forcibly thrown at each other, a rivalry of lion born arrogance versus Walder bred spunk developed quickly. Joffrey "helped" things along by constantly taking Lancel's side, egging the Hound to weigh in as well as the situation warranted. " _Lannister Uber Alles_ " as far as my "son" was concerned.

Most nights I mostly kept my mouth shut and wailed away at Tyrek. Nothing more manly than a three hundred pound giant smacking the crap out of a slim twelve year old boy. As a teen, I was a decent athlete despite my slender build and glasses. Hand eye coordination was good. Foot speed and agility were excellent. Endurance not so much. Within my own grade/age group, I seldom lost a hundred yard or shorter distance dash. I made a couple town baseball All-Star teams, though as a strictly bottom of the order supporting player. But this body, Robert Baratheon's, once I got used to it a bit and its girth induced limitations notwithstanding, DAMN!

Of course there was strength. A given. But there was a suppleness of movement and uninhibited range of motion with my arms. And if I didn't think about it, my feet were surprisingly light and quick; though no attempts at any hundred yard dashes. The key I discovered to this body was Zen. Thinking could only hurt the fighting Baratheon Stag. Though it was hard not to think with a blade in my hand when I had never took even so much as a fencing lesson in my life. But little by little I learned to relax some and let go, and my arms and legs began to respond.

"Ahhgg!" Tyrek shouted taking a tumble into the sodden dirt. The weight of my blow had shifted his shield out of the way and he'd taken a mighty thwack with the tourney sword in the ribs. Luckily for him, mostly the flat, not the edge hit him.

"Are you alright, Ty?" I instantly asked. I liked the boy.

He grimaced as he murmured, "Fine, your Grace."

"No, no you're not lad. That's all for you for tonight. Go rest," I commanded.

He didn't seem upset to nod agreement and carefully crawl to his feet.

"Joffrey, how about me and you, boy?" I suggested, still feeling my oats.

My "son" smiled. Joffrey clearly did crave the parental attention I was giving him. And as far as his unhealthy oversized ego was concerned, he continued to do well against me and was evidently eager to have a go at the old stag.

THUD!

The ground reverberated a little. I looked near my feet and there lay a warhammer. My warhammer. The real one with the spike at the end, not the tourney version.

"The Demon of the Trident. Victor over mewling sprogs and snot nosed brats. Stop with your games and face a man," the Hound mocked.

Gulp.

Everything went silent around me. Even the incessant insects and amphibians of the Neck seemed to take pause of their normal croakings and elocutions.

Shit. No fucking way was I going to face him. But I had to do something. Challenge was not supposed to be extended against the King, but it had and it went straight at "Robert's" manhood. This sort of madness was living as far as the body I had stolen was concerned. "Ser Boros, make yourself useful and face me," I commanded the least of my white cloaks. He was at least only a normal man by comparison to the Hound, piggish attributes aside; and even better, sworn to not hurt me.

I bent and picked up the hammer. Not the first time I'd held it. I kept it in my sleeping quarters to maintain my imagined image. When no one was around, I swung it and pretended I actually was Robert … which I was. Fuck me.

Swing. Swing. Swing. I limbered up, testing the weight at full speed. Now how in the hell does a giant fucking mace fight against a sword? Do I choke up on it to make it easier to block blows and counter jab with it like a dagger if I get in close? Or do I just twirl it around and around like Mjolnir and crush anything that comes in its way?

"Two out of three is the victor?" I asked the man about to humiliate me.

"As you wish, your Grace," the oinkish Kingsguard concurred. He didn't look happy about the situation either.

I choked up and marched "bravely" right at the shorter pudgy replica of myself whilst hiding behind my shield.

Clang-clang. Step. Turn. Follow. Clang. Step back. Move forward. Clang. Duck.

"Smash him!" I thought I heard someone yell. Was it Joffrey?

"Stop fighting like a damned cunt!" That was the Hound.

I thought I saw confusion in Boros' eyes. Don't know what to make of my lame-ass improvised style, do you? Good!

Ooops. Too soon. Back step. Shield up. Back step. Shield down. Counter stroke. Too short.

Ahh. Nearly trapped Blount's blade against my shield with the hammer. Yikes. Fist too close to steel. Dulled steel, whatever. I slid my hand lower down the haft.

Turn. Sudden bull rush. Nope, he dodged. Pivot.

THUMP!

Boros staggered. I had landed a solid blow to his shield.

"Get on with it!" More chastisement from the Hound. Conniving bastard!

I started twirling it a bit. Not so fast my "Robert" enhanced strength couldn't jerk it to a quick stop if I needed to … maybe.

Clang-clang. Step. Swish. Counter-step. Clang. Dodge. Turn. Turn back. Clang. Woosh. Clang-clang. Clang. Push forward. Shit!

Swish, the blade went over my shield and just past my T-helm close to my protected ear. Blount was open. I didn't think. Surprising. I swung sideways, and as the hammer arced through the air I let the rest of the haft slide through my palm until I caught the nob at the end. Leverage is my friend!

Crack!

Ser Boros had gotten his shield around enough I didn't break his ribs. But the force was enough and the low upward angle of the hit just so that the impact forced his arm and shield high up in the air.

I spun about. I don't know why I spun all the way around. I just knew to do it. The warhammer whipped around with me, gaining momentum. My arm came up high and then down went this five or ten pound anvil of steel.

SMASH!

HULK (or Thor?) SMASH!

Ser Boros shield was still far up, the right place to catch the blow. A powerful blow.

CRACK!

Unfortunately the thick oak and iron banded piece decided to split on impact. Ser Boros dropped like a stunned cow in a slaughter house.

I stepped back and waited for him to rise. His own shield must have smacked him a hard one in the head. Maybe a doozy of a concussion. Ha, bad enough to make him ride in the wheelhouse tomorrow with Cersei. Take that bitch.

I waited. He didn't move. But the Hound did, to check on Blount. He kicked the broken shield away from the knight's face where it had landed when the jowly man toppled.

"HAHAHAHaHaHahahahahaha!" Sandor Clegane started laughing.

A big shard of oak had broken from the backside of the shield, found the gap through the knight's open faced helm, and been driven by the strength of my blow to lodge deep in Ser Boros' right eye. He was dead.

* * *

Guilt

"To Ser Boros Blount, as useless an arse as I ever knew. Still he had the honor of being a Kingsguard. May the _Father_ judge him mercifully," I toasted weakly, raising the skin.

"To Ser Boros," everyone gathered about the hastily constructed, modest sized funeral pyre echoed. No one had wanted to venture very far in the dark into the swamp in search of dry wood.

The wine tasted like dregs going over my tongue and down my bile choked gullet.

Guilt. I had not expected the real guilt to start this soon. We weren't even at Winterfell yet.

"Ser Meryn, speak of your brother," I commanded, not wanting to say another word about the lout myself; a lout and the first person directly dead by my own hand.

"Ahem. Ser Boros was a true knight … blah, blah, blah."

Guilt. Guilt that I didn't feel guiltier than I did.

"Clever with the blade he was. This one time, at a melee in Rosby, why Ser Boros … blah, blah, blah" Meryn continued unenthusiastically.

Guilt. For four years I had started the mental preparations that would see me take another life. Guilt at the relief that that nightmare had now irrevocably passed out of my feeble hands.

Trant finally mumbled his way to a conclusion and eyed my cautiously.

"Well spoke, Ser Meryn," I applauded him and then promptly took another long guzzle. Everyone else did too. When the King drinks in public, everybody damn well joins him. Buuuuuurp. "Ser Arys, what have you to say?"

Guilt. Guilt that I would not see Keira and Charlotte graduate high school. Graduate college. Marry. Have children.

The lad, who as the youngest Kingsguard at twenty seven made him so to my middle aged brain, looked thoughtful a moment. "I remember the day Ser Boros welcomed me to the White Tower. I was cloaked by Ser Barristan at … blah, blah, blah"

Guilt. Guilt that I now felt more alive than I ever had in my old life; when I was just passing time, going through the motions, while waiting for death.

Silence.

Arys had finished and I hadn't even noticed.

"Has anyone any more words they would like to share about Ser Boros?" I asked. Why was I leading this? Hadn't anyone thought to have brought a septon and a septa along on this trip to see after "my children's" moral education?

More Silence.

"Light the pyre," I commanded.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there for Rebecca when she finally lost all use of her arms. That I would not be there to assist her, to push her wheelchair, when she could no longer walk.

The wood and grass and moss were damp. The flame spread with a trickle instead of a surging woosh. Would it grow hot enough to render the man down to just his bones? Bones were a thing here. Was there anyone in House Blount who would care that the bones were going to be returned?

Guilt. Guilt that I would not suffer proper anguish when these fictional wraiths turned flesh and blood died at my hands.

"Come, Joffrey. Let us turn in for the night."

"Very well, father." The boy had a thoughtful look on his face as we began walking away from the light.

I stepped closer and draped a thick arm companionably over his shoulders. The little shit had probably seen more death than I had. When was the last viewing I had attended? Twenty years ago? Did putting our family dogs to sleep count as a moral equivalent? My father-in-law had been cremated and the memorial service held two months after his death. We had spread his ashes on Mount Wilson, in the San Gabriels that he had so loved to hike.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there when the tumor in her spinal cord grew so large that every waking moment would be an agony.

My hand twitched. I wondered what it would feel like to squeeze the life out of Joffrey. And of everyone else I must kill.

Guilt. Guilt that I would not be there when Rebecca finally acknowledged the inevitable; that she could no longer fight the endless misery. Who would be there for her? Who would gift her the inevitable craved release?

We reached Joffrey's tent together, not having said a word to one another; each comfortably lost in thoughts the other couldn't begin to comprehend. I ruffled his hair, annoying him, just like any teenager would at a parent's invasion of space. "Sleep well," I commanded.

Guilt that I might not actually die a grotesque, Westerosi death and have to live a long life with all my guilt … and that it wasn't nearly enough guilt for all the evils I would perpetrate.

* * *

The causeway took one last wide curve through the black bogs of the Neck and then went straight towards an irregular looking (read broken) black as lava wall over which the tops of three leaning to various degrees towers ranged. Those were less black colored and more green. Moss? Algae?

"Moat Cailin," I announced. What else could it be? We were about to truly enter the North. AT – FUCKING – LAST!

"It doesn't look like much," Joffrey whined.

"It doesn't have to be. You can't outflank it through all that muck, can you? I assume there's a moat. What can you fill it in with? And how big an army can you support if you have to haul all your damned food up the Neck? A couple hundred seasoned men could hold that place a damned long time against anything coming up from the South. There's a reason the North was never conquered. Looks can be deceiving, remember that boy."

A mile closer and the lead pair of outriders came trotting back.

"What?" I demanded.

"We spied someone standing on the bridge."

What? Moat Cailin was supposed to be deserted; though I intended to change that. Damned Ironborn weren't going to catch the North with their pants down this time.

I spurred my horse from a walk past a trot and into a canter. The outriders, Joffrey, and my two remaining White Cloaks – Ser Arys and Ser Meryn – followed.

Yes, there was someone there.

At about a furlong's distance I could tell the person was short. A child? But not scared to run off at my party's menacing approach?

Then something in the pit of my stomach reared itself. I felt clammy all of a sudden.

I reined up at the foot of the bridge. It wasn't a child. It was a man. And he neither smiled nor frowned at me. He just stared placidly at me with almost hunter green colored eyes.

"Your Grace, I heard you wished to have words with me."

"Lord Howland," I guessed. My plans were about to change.


	16. Part 15 - Antlers, Thorns, and an Imp

The rain which had come down in torrents most of the last seven days had at last relented during the night; perhaps fearful of the Queen of Thorns notorious wrath should it interfere with her coming arrival in King's Landing. While the sun now shone down brightly upon Olenna Tyrell's modest procession approaching the far side of the river, the still backed up gutters and sewers and middens of the city offered up an aromatic miasma most similar to the stuff that fertilized her house's flowery symbol, thought Tyrion.

Normally, he wouldn't have cared a fig about watching the illustrious old lady's wheelhouse loaded on to a barge to cross the fast and near overflowing Blackwater Rush. Well, perhaps as a spectacle, if there was reason to believe the barge might flip. But undoubtedly if it did, brave Ser Loras would single handedly leap in to heroically save dear granny and bring her safely to shore none the worse for wear. The young knight had the natural air of total assurance and utter competence that Tyrion most often associated with his brother Jaime, Ser Barristan, and very, very few others.

It was in fact Ser Loras who had caused Tyrion to waddle to the top of the curtain wall on the southwest facing side of the Red Keep; a wall that he shared at a distance with Renly Baratheon. The lovers had over loudly quarreled that morning over Lady Olenna's instructions that Ser Loras, and Ser Loras alone, accompany her from the edge of the Kingswood all the way up Aegon's Hill. Renly had pouted like the spoiled child he was all the way until Loras had clambered aboard his horse, but the young, fresh faced, extremely pretty knight had not relented; causing Tyrion to reassess for the hundredth time which one of the two was the knight and which the maid in their relationship.

By her legendary repute, he believed the Queen of Thorns would make an effective Mistress of Whisperers. Unfortunately, that bode ill for House Lannister's currently dominating position in the realm. Luckily, nothing of great incrimination had been found among Varys' effects or the written words tortured out of the Spider's captured 'little birds.' And Tyrion had taken care of the scraps of blackmailable information in Littlefinger's possession. Would his family's luck continue to hold? Jaime being banished from King's Landing would help; unless Robert's command prodded his unwise siblings to even greater acts of foolishness.

Be-that-as-it-may, with her instructions, Lady Olenna must already know where her grandson's affections lay. Hence, getting Loras alone first; for a more truthful accounting than could be done elsewise, but likely not wholly truthful. Was that good or ill for Renly? And thus, by reverse extension, the opposite effect for Stannis? Undoubtedly, the new Mistress of Whisperers would be good for House Tyrell, but not necessarily for the desires of the so called 'Knight of Flowers.'

Time would tell. It was remorseless that way. Everything was about to change. Tyrion would do his best to ensure that the Lannisters continued to always pay their debts. A new, competent, and dynamic player in the Game of Thrones was about to enter the Small Council and the King's Landing playing board. What would dear, confusing Robert find when he returned?

'Ahh, I have been spied,' he thought. His stature allowed for a certain level of sneakiness when his waddling style did not betray his presence. The crenel in the parapet, one with a stair up to it to allow men-at-arms easier access for dropping rocks and boiling things on invaders' heads, had been a particularly advantageous place for him to observe things both near and far.

Renly, richly dressed in a dark green velvet doublet, upon which embroidered golden stags could be seen except for where a golden half cape lay elegantly across a broad, strong shoulder, came strolling in his direction.

"Lannister," the King's brother called, a Baelish like insolent smile playing across his lips, as he came to a halt in front of Tyrion. "Stretching your legs?"

Their eyes were for a refreshing change of about of a height. The halfman's perhaps a shade higher, thanks to the battlement. Renly Baratheon, in addition to being well dressed and painfully handsome, was quite tall – just an inch shorter than the King's own prodigious length.

"Not if I can help it, Lord Renly. I've come to catch my first glimpse of the famous Lady Olenna."

"Infamous, don't you mean?"

"Only by repute … from some. Bitter suitors ejected from Tyrell favor, surely. While I have never had the pleasure of meeting her before. Until now, our paths keep just missing: the Queen of Thorns and the Imp. Seems a meeting destined to happen at some point, don't you think, my lord?"

"Seems more destined as the name for some mummer's farce. Or a children's puppet show."

"Thank you for suggesting such, my lord. I shall hire some starving wordsmith to fashion a story out of it; but perhaps as star crossed lovers instead of a farce?"

"A tragedy, if Lady Olenna catches wind of it. Kindly to a fault I have found her, but deadly serious where her family's honor is concerned. Be careful around her, Lannister," Renly warned.

"Then I shall ask the lady myself which type of play she would prefer," Tyrion answered, not wanting to relent on the stag bone he was gnawing to some small effect.

"Good day, Lannister" the bigger man said while nodding a dismissal and stalked off.

"My lord," Tyrion answered to the departing shade.

* * *

Unlike with the King's surprise return, this time the Small Council, reduced as it was, waited in the outer yard as the wheelhouse came clanking through the giant bronze gates of the keep's entrance to bring the notable within. Stannis hectoring the cause of it. Interestingly, Ser Loras was not riding beside Lady Olenna's conveyance, but within it. The only thing Loras liked mounting as much as Renly was a horse, at least by Tyrion's latest estimation of the situation.

The large contraption delicately inlaid with the cornucopia of House Merryweather and not House Tyrell's rose screeched to a stop.

Both Stannis and Renly stepped forward. "Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Olenna." "On behalf of the Small Council, welcome to the Red Keep, Lady Olenna." They falsely echoed each other. Like two great beasts the pair incessantly howled past each other, all the while trying to piss their mark; this was no different. Tyrion hoped Ned Stark had the strength and wits to tame them when he arrived as Robert's new Hand. Though the King did frequently seem to enjoy watching his brother's bicker. Tyrion's new, even greater intimacy to the Baratheon brothers' situation certainly raised his appreciation of what Jon Arryn must have dealt with on a daily basis; and that in addition to a drunk, whore-mongering king.

Pages promptly lowered a folding stair and two ridiculously tall guards were the first to disembark.

"Erryk. Arryk. Help my lady grandmother down," Ser Loras pleasant voice called out from within the roofed carriage.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Left and Right. I am neither feeble of body nor mind," the sharp tongue everyone was expecting at some point lashed out from within.

"Yes, milady," the giants placidly murmured together, not in the least disturbed by the contradictory commands. Their faces clearly showed they were long inured to her verbal harassment.

'Mayhaps I'll have a drink with that pair,' Tyrion thought. ' _The Titans and the Imp_ , the second in a collection of plays written by …' His amused musings were interrupted. 'Oh, she's short,' which Tyrion admitted was something coming from him. 'And old.'

"Lady Olenna, please come with us to the Small Council Hall, there is much to discuss," Stannis' deep raspy voice commanded.

"Please forgive my oafish brother, Lady Olenna, there is not so much to discuss as cannot wait until tomorrow, after you have rested and bathed and eaten well," Renly's smoother, amiable bass soothingly reassured.

"Stuff and nonsense, I did not accept Robert Baratheon's invite to simply adorn his Small Council with my beauty. Ha. Time enough for me to rest and be bathed when I'm dead. Move along, Renly, but none too fast," she chided.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard next bowed to the new come guest hobbling along with aid of an ornate cane.

"A pleasure to see you again, Ser Barristan," she pointedly said as she purposefully broke away from the never ending clash of antlers between the Baratheon brothers.

"And to see you so well, Lady Tyrell," the knight replied nobly.

"I'm old, weak, and tired, Barristan; enough of your noble lies, Ser."

Her sharp tongue did not so much as scratch Ser Barristan's armor. He smiled warmly down at the wee Queen of Thorns. "Yet you are here to serve the King, nine hundred miles from Highgarden; and carrying the same strong spirit I first saw displayed on a sunny field by the banks of the Mander, Lady Tyrell. You are well indeed," the Bold One dared to contradict.

"Few of us are what we once were; though you appear to do better than most. Call me Lady Olenna, Ser Barristan, since we are to share the burdens our lackadaisical King is uninterested in attending to."

Conceding the worth of the knight's sally, the Queen of Thorns had struck back in a fashion to which the honorable Barristan could not respond at all: one would be a lie and the other to speak belittling of his monarch. Perhaps she was tired, perhaps she wasn't. But if she was, an immediate Small Council session could offer a golden opportunity to catch the formidable old biddy in a mistake of some sort.

Tyrion bowed low as she came near him on the way to the Council Hall, "Welcome, Lady Olenna," he said warmly. Painful her pricks might be, but very, very interesting.

"I am Lady Tyrell to the likes of you, Tyrion Lannister," she caustically snapped. "My opinion of you might be higher than the regard your own father holds you, young lord. But until you prove your worth to me and the Realm, you have not earned the right to use my proper name."

Tyrion swallowed hard. "Indeed, Lady Tyrell." At least she hadn't required him to match Ser Barristan's long record of service.

* * *

"Left, Right, far enough," The Queen of Thorns commanded her towering guards just outside the chamber. The pair made the heroically proportioned Baratheon brothers and the commanding presence of Ser Barristan seem small by comparison. The peeled off and took station beside the immutable black marble Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the door with their polished garnet eyes.

Tyrion found himself wishing the old lady had tried to bring them into the inner sanctum of the Small Council, just to see Stannis' reaction to someone bringing an armed presence within. Still, he got the sort of reaction he wanted from the uptight stag when Lady Tyrell took the seat around the table to the immediate right of the ornate, royal seat.

"Lady Olenna, _that_ is the chair of the Hand," Stannis immediately complained.

"And we are without a Hand, literally, as we've received no raven from Winterfell announcing Ned Stark's acceptance," Renly promptly countered.

"It is _tradition_ ," Stannis protested.

"And it is also tradition to treat ladies of such quality and wisdom as Lady Olenna, with consideration and respect."

"And she shall have the consideration and respect she deserves. I would grant her nothing less," the older brother said in his best honor aggrieved voice.

"I am sure Lady Olenna meant no disrespect, Lord Stannis," Ser Barristan stated simply, acting as peacemaker.

"Given out by the precious thimble full, brother. Magnanimity was never your strong suit," the younger brother taunted, speaking right past the Commander of the Kingsguard.

"And yours is given so generously it barely the worth of the wind you spoke it with, Renly."

"Enough. Don't be children and me your nursemaid," Lady Tyrell announced in a no-nonsense tone as she slowly drew herself out of the seat and shuffled over a chair. "My teats are too dried and shriveled to allow the petty, squabbling likes of _you_ to suckle from."

Stannis squinted petulantly at the Queen of Thorns while Renly simply smiled that smooth, ingratiating smile of his. She sat down. The others moved to take their usual, but typically not set places. Except that is Tyrion, who always sat at the left end of the table; his seat bolstered with pillows to bring him up to proper height.

"Where is the King?" Lady Tyrell asked simply.

Did she not know? Or was she simply playing a part? How much information had Loras passed to her in the four or five hours she had him to herself. In fact, how much information had the new Mistress of Whisperers been able to receive during long journey up from Highgarden?

"By now his Grace has probably entered the North," Ser Barristan answered.

"We last had a raven message from Robert from the Twins," Renly added lazily.

"The Twins? What in the _Mother's_ name was he doing there?" Her face turned to Tyrion. "Is your Aunt Genna there?"

"Gods no. Not if she can avoid it. Walder Frey's next wedding won't be for another three or four months. Apparently his Grace has gathered a bunch Freys and he is taking them to Winterfell with him."

"Robert has commanded Lord Eddard to call a council of the Northern Houses," announced Stannis sternly, wanting to join the mix with what he thought was most relevant.

Olenna Tyrell frowned in evident thought, then, "hahahaha," she laughed with evident, nasty mirth. "I would enjoy seeing Lady Catelyn's face when she heard."

A bunch of blank stares looked back at the chuckling old lady. Tyrion hadn't thought the calling of a council of Norther Houses odd. How often did the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm go North? Odd was Robert's sudden interest in the Freys. But that was fickle, drunken Robert … "Oh," he murmured in surprise. Then "Oh," much louder.

Lady Tyrell's cold eyes caught his. "Who in the King's party has a brain?" she demanded.

"My sister perhaps has half a brain, when she cares to bother. But she wouldn't care about this. Other than her?" the halfman shrugged

"Care about what, Lord Tyrion?" Stannis said in a commanding voice.

"About annoying the Tully's enough to provoke that young fool Edmure into marrying, so he starts producing heirs," the Queen of Thorns chastised like a Maester with a particularly recalcitrant, dull novice.

The other eyes began to flicker with understanding. 'My, my Robert, what _has_ gotten into you,' Tyrion thought.

"You will then be pleased to hear, Lady Olenna, that my brother has at long last, for the second time, performed his duty with Lady Selyse," Renly chuckled sardonically.

"And how is the Lord of Storm's End doing on that front?" the old lady snapped back at Renly before turning her attention to his brother. "Congratulations, Lord Stannis. May your lady wife bear you a strong son. How far along is she?"

"A month," he announced cautiously.

"A month? Then you are a fool, Stannis Baratheon," she lit into him. "I suffered three miscarriages and two stillbirths, around five children who grew up to be only three. Don't count your dragons before they hatch."

The room could hear the grinding of those teeth, which by now should have been worn down to nubs after all these years. Maester Zelladune had sworn that the raven message from Dragonstone had come in with an intact seal, and Stannis had admitted to no complaint about its status; yet somehow news of Selyse Florent's pregnancy had leaked. And poor Stannis with no one to bring to justice for it.

"Do you have any news to share with us, Lady Olenna?" Ser Barristan asked, trying to break the rising tension of the room.

"His Grace warned me that a magister in Pentos, named Illyrio Mopatis, was suspected of having strong connections with our unlamented dead eunuch, Varys. I've started several efforts to gather information on the man. I understand he was a merchant and had given shelter to Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Has any mention of this Illyrio been come across in Varys' effects?"

"Yes, actually, Lady Ollena. We captured a score of Vary's tongueless little birds. We've gotten a fair amount of information out of them, they've all come from Pentos. This magister's name has been mentioned a time or two in some of the … questioning," Renly, under his purview as Master of Law, explained,

"Good. Have the torturers had scribes to take notes?"

"They have."

"Send the scroll to me first thing," she commanded.

Renly nodded his head in acquiescence.

"What do you have to share, Lady Olenna," Stannis repeated.

She looked solidly back at the Master of Ship, obviously not intimidated in the least. "The Conclave will elect my goodbrother Gormon as the next Grand Maester," she announced baldly.

"According to Maester Zelladune, the Conclave hasn't even met yet. How do you know this, Lady Olenna?" Stannis accused.

"Because I've bribed enough Arch Maesters to make it happen, Lord Stannis," The Queen of Thorns rejoined without an ounce of shame.

Tyrion stifled a laugh, he couldn't wait for the formidable old lady to ask him what he had discovered of Littlefinger's shenanigans. The realm wasn't six million gold dragons in debt, but closer to seven thanks to Baelish's clever manipulations. He knew for a certainty she would accuse him of collecting a fair share of the former Master of Coins illicitly gained wealth from the Iron Throne. And he had just decided to emulate her and admit the bald fact of it.

Interesting times indeed were come with Olenna Tyrell. Interesting times.


	17. Part 16 - The Stark in Winterfell

The huge bull of a man leading the column on horse through Winterfell's East Gate could be none other than Robert. Beside him rode the Lannister woman. Directly behind the married Stag and Lion came a pair of white cloaks. Riders carrying golden banners emblazoned with the Baratheon crowned stag were interspersed throughout, disturbingly with a few jointly showing both stags and lions, making it difficult for Ned to spot any other riders in the royal party that he might recognize.

Next in line came a tall blonde youth, who could only be Prince Joffrey; along with his bodyguard, the terribly scarred Sandor Clegane. Then a pair of children no older than Bran and Arya: obviously Robert's younger children Tommen and Myrcella, both as blonde as their mother, though pleasant enough appearing. After a few more rows of mounted escorts, he next caught a glimpse of and focused on an older, bald headed man sporting the sigil of the Twins on his surcoat.

That surprised and worried Ned. He knew the raven bearing Robert's strange command to hold a Council of the North had flown from Walder Frey's House, but it had made no mention of … Howland? What was his friend doing riding with Robert? Warm feelings and an old dread swelled up within him at the sight of the crannogman.

"Ned!" That familiar, thunderous voice shook down from the heavens above, dragging his thoughts away from Howland and what his presence might imply. The almost stranger carefully dismounted instead of leaping off with the unrestrained vigor Ned well remembered. It had been nine years, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, that they had last seen each other. His once close as a brother friend had grown fat over the intervening years and now sported a moderately kempt beard to hide the jowls.

"It's grand to see that frozen face of yours," Robert proclaimed, pulling him into a hug.

There was plenty of that legendary strength, but also something oddly reticent, in how those powerful arms grabbed him and set him back down.

"Let me look at you. You haven't changed a bit from our days at the Eyrie."

Ned stared up into his friend's face. The eyes were tired, hollow, and showed a reticent as well. 'What has happened to you, Robert.'

"A pity Jon is no longer here to share in our reunion," Robert faltered, more embarrassed sounding than anguished.

Ned summoned up a sad smile and said what his years of lordship told him he must say, "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

"Only for a brief time, my friend. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, nothing about a Baratheon. Now let's get these tedious introductions over with, so I can go warm my bones. Snow! Who would have imagined? In the longest summer any man alive has seen?" the giant whom he had ridden out with a lifetime ago to win a throne blustered on while turning back to the horses. Politely Robert held up a hand. "My Queen."

Cersei Lannister smiled at her husband. A curious smile, neither warmth nor ice nor indifference nor mere politeness. And gracefully took his aid in dismounting; careful that her rich, bejeweled gown did not snag on the saddle or drop into the slush and mud of the courtyard. Ned repeated his welcome and dropped to one knee in the damp muck to kiss the Queen's ring.

Robert stepped over to take both of Catelyn's hands and stop her from curtseying very far. "Dear Lady, you have my deepest thanks for hosting my motley court on such short notice," that familiar deep bass rumbled with unaccustomed ... something to Ned's ear. Humility? Uncertainty?

Then the children from both houses were brought forward for introductions. Robert seemed to take a long time with each child, except for Rickon; complementing them and teasing each one with some choice personal detail that the King said he had heard about them. Each tidbit uncannily accurate, he noted. And then Robert started bespeaking Benjen about how things were at the Wall. While there had been no question that Jon would not be formally introduced; for once, Ned felt glad about it.

Finishing his own greetings with Robert's three in quick, but polite fashion; Ned stepped to the side and watched out of the corner of his eye the remnants of the royal party fill up the courtyard. He was surprised to find no sign of the Queen's brothers. He had understood they were to be part of the pack of Southerners. He spied several more Freys, then worryingly even more Freys, and a couple of squires who had the Lannister look to them. No one appeared familiar. No face even from their time together at Pyke.

And then he spied Howland again. The crannogman dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of his discovery, but kept his face its usual placid self; giving no clue as to how or why he came to be there. The Lord of Winterfell had not even bothered sending a raven to Greywater Watch proclaiming Robert's council, knowing in his heart that the wee man wouldn't bother to come. Yet here he was. Ned trusted Howland with his and his family's lives. Yet ... yet.

As if following Ned's eyes and thoughts, Robert called out, "Come Howland. Come Aenys. Join us in the Great Hall for something to fight this chill off." The King turned and addressed him. "Our friend Howland showed up unannounced at Moat Cailin like some swamp ghost knowing I needed a good haunting. Glad I was to see him. And this is Ser Aenys Frey, old Walder's third son, Ned. Thought I'd bring a passel of the old lech's get up here to the North, see if we can find any brides or grooms for 'em, so they don't overrun the Riverlands. Ha! Did you hear Walder's going to marry again. Ninety years old. Amazing. I made a hundred dragon bet with him on how soon he'd get this young sweetling Joyeuse Erenford pregnant. And another fifty on whether her first born would be a boy or a girl," Robert half laughed and half babbled, as if somehow unsure of his normal enthusiasms.

* * *

After a sole mulled wine dedicated to the memory of Jon Arryn, Robert had asked that his family be shown their quarters so that they might rest and clean up prior to that evening's welcome feast. Ned was happy to show them to the Great Keep as even the brief interlude over drink had slowed the ongoing preparations. The royal couple had seemed well enough pleased with their rooms. At one point the Lannister woman had started to say something, only to be quickly interrupted by Robert's whispering in her ear. Whatever it was he said had caused the Queen to fight down a blush.

Leaving them, he found Catelyn instead of Vayon waiting for him in his work salon. "Your friend has changed."

"I barely recognize him," Ned admitted, the man's personality seeming almost as changed as his fat body. "I wondered if he would throw Lyanna in the Queen's face and order me to take him straight to the crypt." It was known that the royal marriage was not a happy one; rumor saying it was worse now than what ill tidings Robert had told him of directly during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Truthfully, while he felt disappointment that his friend had not asked; Howland's presence made the relief at its absence almost equal.

"The Queen may have been surprised as well," Catelyn commented, her words drawing his keen interest. His wife knew him well enough when to continue unasked. "Hide it though she tried, she watched and listened to the King more than she paid attention to us and her own children."

Other than the odd smile the Lannister woman had bestowed on Robert, he had not paid her much attention. Trust Catelyn to notice such clues. "Love? Jealousy?" he guessed a loud, believing the one much more than the other. But jealous of who? Catelyn? Sansa? It made little sense to him.

"Neither. More … curious, I think." Catelyn seemed a little unsure of her own answer.

What was there to be curious of? His friend had spoken knowingly with Robb and Bran and Sansa and … "Do you …? Are they contemplating a betrothal?" he wondered. Sansa would make a great lady one day, but she was only eleven. Or would it be Myrcella? Robert joining his house to my own as he had always dreamed. This lead his thoughts again to Lyanna.

His wife nodded slightly in agreement, mostly following along with his unspoken words. "Perhaps. Kings are not like other men. Nor are Queens, but they are mothers. A betrothal, a mother's concern, that … that was not the look Cersei Lannister was following the King with. More … more?"

Catelyn appeared lost in memory. He gave her a moment to find herself. When Winter came, a Northman learned patience.

"… it was more how my eyes followed you, Ned, when I first arrived at Winterfell," she said, with Jon Snow being the unspoken but implicit part of the statement, "and I learned how to live with my lord husband."

Ned did not know how to reply to that. Respect and kindness had been given and returned. They already had had a son. And love had eventually grown between them. What more was there to it? Catelyn, as the daughter of a Lord Paramount, had already known how to act the part of a great lady. "Marriage to Robert would be a new adventure every day," he chuckled mirthlessly.

His wife scowled at him before snapping. "You knew the man. But he is a stranger to you now. His pride as swollen as his belly. Here, as King, he has brought that pack of weasels and declared he wants Northern brides for them." Her Southron blood was growing hot.

"That was ill considered," he admitted. He knew few Riverland lords, the Tullys included, had love for the Freys. And the banner lords who had fought to make Robert king that were coming to Winterfell would well remember old Walder's late arrival at the Trident. They would not appreciate the Stag's attempts at forced matchmaking. He sighed. "Sadly, there are several houses in need of marriages and heirs."

"And in my own family too," Cat acknowledged bitterly. "Who inherits Riverrun if Edmure follows Uncle Bryden's course?"

Ned felt his face turn icy.

* * *

The Great Hall of Winterfell was thick with smoke, the smell of food, and the noise of men experiencing an entertaining feast. A pair of bards, one at each end, strummed their lutes and sang either amusing, frequently dirty ditties or cloying love ballads of knights and ladies. One singer he knew, one he didn't. Orland of Oldtown, House Manderly's resident bard and on loan from New Castle, would play his harp later. Ned stepped back from the main door and turned around. Everyone seemed gathered and properly paired. "Are you ready, your Grace?"

The Lannister woman looked at him in all her beauty. The emeralds in her tiara matched the green of her lovely eyes. The golden dress was of soft velvet interspersed with panels of silk, all of it embroidered with lions – no stags or does for her. Long intricately set hair tumbled artfully over her shoulders and across an expanse of visible flesh, revealing the hint of a substantial and still firm bosom. She smiled a condescending smile.

Ned offered her his arm and murmured, "Jory."

The captain of his household guard slid over to the entrance and whispered a command to the pair of guards just within, possibly the richest or the poorest of poor souls who wither lost the lottery for night duty or accepted significant silver from their brothers who did want to attend. Immediately they slammed the butts of their spears against the stone floor just inside the huge, crowded room.

The noise within started to lower. A warhorn warbled to announce the coming of the King. Ned wondered whether that was appropriate, but didn't let it bother him.

Then the Lannister woman place her ringed hand on his sleeve and the procession began. A third of the way in, by a gaggle of squires, they passed Jon and Ned offered the boy the slimmest of looks. Catelyn had not wanted him included in any of the formal family settings with the King; stating it was so as not to disturb the Queen who was known to be sensitive about natural borns thanks to all of Robert's bastards. Again, Ned thought Jon's absence a good idea. And then he led Cersei up on to the dais and over to her seat in the middle of the long table.

His lady wife and the King came next. Rickon and Bran came after. The three year old did pause by Jon, who along with Bran promptly urged him on. Then came Robb and the Princess Myrcella, followed by Arya and Prince Tomen. And then the last of his children, Sansa, holding the arm of Prince Joffrey.

Ned now firmly suspected Robert would depart Winterfell with a marriage alliance between their two houses. Why come to the North? He understood the loss his friend was suffering from the death of their foster father, but that only went so far in explaining the lengthy journey here; called Council of the North or no Council of the North. The only other reason would be to ask him to become Hand, and Robert knew Ned would never leave Winterfell. He had said as much on his arrival hours before.

Benjen, dressed in his finest yet still plain Night's Watch garb, entered with Ned's ward Theon beside him. And last, and definitely least in the opinion of some, for the high table came Howland and Aenys Frey. Ned wondered whether Catelyn's guess was true. She certainly believed it strongly, causing her already warm Southron blood to grow all the hotter. It was long past time his goodbrother Edmure got married and started siring heirs.

* * *

The Lannister woman did not prove an unpleasant dinner companion. But Ned, thanks to Cat's earlier observation, did in fact get the sense that at least half her attention, while well cloaked, was aimed at surreptitiously observing Robert. Odd. Yet was not Robert odd too?

His friend acted unlike the usual, boisterous self that Ned fondly remembered. Except for one funny story related to the whole Great Hall about how he fell gracelessly on his useless royal arse only to be saved by Clegane, for which a toast was mandated, Robert remained rather subdued. He ate moderately. He drank moderately. He didn't so much as look at any of the serving maids, while paying Cersei more than a fair share of compliments. And best of all, he even charmed, or at least mollified, Catelyn by focusing their conversations upon the children.

That only convinced Ned all the further that a marriage alliance was in the offing. But would Robert ask for Robb, Bran, or Sansa? Thinking as a Lord Paramount, and taking his lady wife's suspicions into account, a match with Myrcella laden with the possibility of Bran inheriting Riverrun, Old Gods forfend such a tragedy on his wife's house, would increase the fortunes of House Stark and House Baratheon the most. And Tywin Lannister, damn the man, would be well pleased too.

Yet Prince Joffrey, who sat the other side of him at the high table, also proved an enjoyable companion for the feast. While the lad did set most of his attention to pleasing and complimenting Sansa, on more than one occasion the lad leaned over to ask questions about the War against the Targaryens and stamping out the Greyjoy Rebellion. Oh, he was polite enough to inquire about Lord Stark's exploits; however, he was clearly most interested in hearing about his father. Not a bad sign from a son, or future goodson, Ned thought cautiously.

* * *

With the meal at the high table done, though many below the dais were still filling their bellies, all that remained for the feast was drinking and talking and singing and a bit of dancing by the most drunk or daring or both. Orland was plucking at his harp and reciting a ballad that Ned knew infatuated Sansa. The children's eyes, aside from Robb and Sansa, were getting droopy, despite the excitement and being limited to the one glass of wine. Ser Aenys had stepped off to consult with his over numerous kin distributed throughout the lower end of the hall. Ned spied Benjen below too, talking with Jon; for which Ned was thankful. And Howland had slipped away somewhere.

Ned wanted to talk to his banner lord and friend. They had last spoken five harvest feasts ago. Howland usually just sent a deputy to carrying the Neck's traditional tribute of bog iron to Winterfell. Yet here he was, unannounced, having spent two weeks company with Robert on the road. What might they have discussed?

"Lord Eddard!" Robert was standing with a large goblet in his even larger hand. "My thanks to my friend for this fine welcoming feast. The Stag and all the Seven Kingdoms revere the might and wisdom of the Direwolf. May there always be a Stark in Wintefell. To Lord Eddard!"

"To Lord Eddard!" the whole room boomed, with a few howls accompanying the display.

Ned felt his cheeks grow warm. To be praised in his own home for gladly doing his duty to his King and friend? An answering toast was required. He too stood and lifted his own cup. "To the King, long may he rule!" he declared simply.

"To the King!" reverberated throughout the hall, bouncing off walls and support beams and the soaring ceiling.

Robert's unusually hollow appearing blue eyes could barely stay on Ned's grey ones. What was wrong with his friend? Had Jon's death, had the weight of being King, so thoroughly crushed the powerful spirit he had known in his youth?

"Now I fear it is late for tired fat old kings such as myself." Hoots of disbelief greeted this announcement. Robert waved them down. "I will leave the feasting and the drinking and the rogering of the pretty maids to the younger bucks. If you will forgive me, Lady Catelyn?" She nodded her agreement to him. "My queen?" And he offered his arm, to which the Lannister woman actually smiled with some warmth.

Ned and the whole dais stood as the Queen rose. Their three children followed them down to the main axis of the Great Hall and towards the main doors. From behind, Ned could see that his friend's silk shirt was sweat clean through, plastered to his meaty back and broad shoulders.

"Bard," Robert called out, pointing towards a brown-grey haired slender man in a corner with a lute slung over his back. "My feast may be done, but my heart still yearns for music. Entertain me," he commanded.

Off the small royal party departed into the Northern night, followed by two ghosts in white cloaks. "And the mead gets drunk and you get drunker," a bunch of wags began to sing happily.


	18. Part 17 - The Bard-Beyond-the-Wall

Mance walked calmer than he felt in his place amongst the rear of the royal party. His plan to imitate Bael the Bard in order to take the measure of that _other_ King-Beyond-the-Wall seemed like rather a hasty decision at the moment. Who would have guessed the fat man would want a pinch of private music to woo his Queen? Pretty enough to steal, sour enough to set loose in a blizzard, he thought. Eyes alert as always, he focused himself on the opportunity this unexpected invite represented. Achieving the status of King-Beyond-the-Wall was not for the weak willed.

Speaking of the weak willed, Robert Baratheon had proven a vast disappointment. This was no Demon of the Trident, just another piggish warrior gone to nightmares, swill, and hamhocks as he aged. Yes, there was still strength in those arms. But the eyes, they revealed a weak, vacillating, beaten man. While not a proper King, in Mance's estimation, this shell of a man was still afforded that treatment by the kneelers and that made him dangerous of sorts to respect a little.

So he dutifully tagged along with the squires and pages and escorts through Winterfell's courtyard, willing to sing his part. What choice did he have? He already had most of what he had intended to come for, a feel for the enemy. Perhaps the opportunity might avail itself where he could both acquire some minor treasure off the soon to be rutting royals while leaving some irrefutable mark of his wildling presence. It would make an amusing tale to be song along as part of the legendary telling of how the Free Folk were led south of the Wall by their clever King.

"Bard, do you know _The Dornishman's Wife_?" the fat man called out in the dark.

"Of certainty, your …"

"Robert, really," the both bonny and tart wench of a royal wife snipped.

"What? Not fit for our children's ears?" the bloated stag promptly bickered back, losing the bonhomie he'd been displaying before. "Tommen, you've heard this song before, haven't you?" And then he warbled the opening line, " _The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun;"_ offending all who had ears.

"I think so, father. Did they sing it tonight?" the doughy boy answered sleepily, while his siblings snickered softly to themselves.

"There!" the chief kneeler shouted as if that proved his point; which caused the older, tall boy to laugh outright. That one had been casting a hidden lustful eye all night at the eldest Stark girl. "Play, play if you can walk and sing at the same time, or get out of my sight before I squash you," the fat man commanded.

Mance smiled at the blustering, sweaty fool and complied.

" _The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,_

 _and her kisses were warmer than spring._ "

" _But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,_

 _and its kiss was a terrible thing._ "

" _The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,_

 _in a voice that was sweet as a peach,_ "

Reaching the keep, one of the white cloaks went within first between the pair of Stark guards stationed either side of the door. The bloated stag allowed the lioness to precede him, and then the royals were followed by their leonine looking offspring and the other white cloak. Mance came third to last, still plucking away at his lute and singing.

" _His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,_

 _and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,_ "

His eyes took in everything, in case he needed to make an escape. Winterfell's keep had not been left open to an itinerant bard these last four days; nor had his three ruse attempts of chatting up a comely chamber wench as she returned to her duties in the keep allowed him sneaky entry. Lord Eddard Stark maintained a house as well-disciplined and guarded as himself.

" _Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,_

 _the Dornishman's taken my life,_ "

"I will see the children to bed," the shapely Queen announced sharply when she stepped off the stairs at the level the royal family must be lodging at.

"They can see to themselves, Cersei," the fat man rumbled peevishly. "I've something to discuss with you," he cajoled pathetically.

"Not tonight, Robert," she answered in a tone that brooked no doubt he would be slashed and chewed to pieces if he pursued his amorous goal further.

" _But what does it matter, for all men must die,_

 _and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!_ "

"Ah, well …" the king who was not kingly shrugged, then stared down at the floor. "Sleep well," he called out as his family departed the other way down the short hall.

"Good night, father," the two youngest chirped back, the only ones oblivious to what was truly happening.

The final notes of the song tailed off, not nearly as discordant sounding as the royal family.

"Just you and me then, bard. Lancel. Tyrek. Get some rest. I want to be up and dressed early tomorrow. Much to talk with Ned about." He sighed long and loud. Then, "Come on, what's your name?" he asked, glancing through the now reduced crowd at Mance.

"Abel, your Grace," he answered, giving out his private joke of a name.

"Not the best Dornishman's Wife I've heard, Abel. But far from the worst." Then he turned to his white cloaks. "Who has duty tonight?"

"I do, your Grace," the red bearded one declared.

"Fine. You stay Ser Meryn. The rest of you lot scram. Abel and I have some serious drinking and singing to do," the bloated stag announced. In the flickering torch light, his silk shirt and forehead practically glistened with sweat.

Mance started to worry a pinch that the fat man's heart might burst before the night was out. That was not the legacy he wanted associated with the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Not that causing the King of the Kneelers to drink himself to death wouldn't make an excellent story; but then he couldn't leave his mark. The less overt attention paid to the actions of any of the Free Folk, minor theft aside, the better.

A page held open the door and the cockless white knight took his subservient place to the side of it. The King entered without even bothering to see whether 'Abel' followed; which Mance did, eyes ever checking for opportunity and a quick way out.

"Do you know _The King Without Courage_?"

"Yesss, your Grace," Mance drawled at the odd, yet fitting song suggestion by this one.

The door shut and the Kneeler's King immediately went for the wine. The fat man only had eyes for the bottle, even as he continued to rattle off song names. A very pleasant room. Large bed. A few rugs on the floor. Several full length tapestries on the walls. And a window, that if his nose for direction was correct, left only a ten foot jump down to the roof of the extended lower keep and then a quick scamper over to Winterfell's inner curtain wall.

" _The Last of the Giants?_ "

"Yes."

" _Rat Cook?_ "

"Yes."

" _The Dance of the Dragons?_ "

"Yes."

" _The Day They Hanged Black Robin?_ "

What a peculiar selection of songs, he thought; hunting for the thread his gut told him was there that would tie it altogether. Coming up empty, Mance finally started to chuckle softly as the fat man kept rattling off titles while all the time staring down at his wine, hand shaking ever so slightly. "I know most every song, your Grace. Name which you wish and I shall play it." Pathetic.

"Hmmmn, how about the one … oh what is called? It's about the Black Brother who becomes the King-Beyond-the-Wall?" the voice quivered.

"That … I admit I do not know," he said slowly as the hairs all over his body started rising and his eyes instinctively started to dart about the room.

"I think you do, Brother Mance," a voice said, as a previously seen face attached to a short, slim figure holding a slender crossbow stepped out from hiding behind a wall tapestry.

How had he not seen the crannogman? The King-Beyond-the Wall prepared to desperately throw his lute. The wee man was not to be underestimated.

"Bread and beer from Winterfell's table, you have guest rights, Brother Mance," Howland Reed continued, steady eyes never leaving their target. They were the most amazing shade of hunter green.

"We only wish to talk with you. Winter is coming," the fat man said with both sincerity and fear.

. . .

Mance felt his future stretch out on a knife's edge.

. . .

"Then I better have some wine. Talking can be dry work," the King-Beyond-the-Wall announced, his decision made.

. . .

Mance watched the tension quickly ease out of the broken warrior King's face. But the crannogman wisely remained alert. More so, even. The correct decision then. The distances were too far and Howland Reed's hand on the imp sized crossbow too steady and familiar.

Without any evident concern for his own safety, Mance approached the table and picked up the bottle to pour a cup. Ha! Dornish Red. What else could it be if the fat man and the Old Gods were playing a joke on him?

With goblet in hand, the Black Brother who became a King found a seat and sat down uninvited to wait. They wanted to talk, so he would let them begin. He already had what he had come to Winterfell for; perhaps he might leave with more than that.

"The Others are gathering and you wish to bring the Wildlings south of the Wall," Robert Baratheon announced abruptly and then quickly brought a goblet to his perspiring lips with that shaky hand.

Mance blinked in wonder. "And if they are?" he asked smoothly, with barely a pause to reveal his surprise.

"Then " _I"_ would want you south of an intact Wall. No battles against the Night's Watch. No sounding of the Horn of … Horn of Jor .. Jor …"

"Joramun," Mance finished for him; startled beyond belief at what he was hearing from the Kneeler King. Regardless, he was a proud Free Folk. He would not let their astounding depth of knowledge bend him or the needs of his people.

"You believe in warging, do you not, Brother Mance?" Howland Reed asked, turning the unusual conversation on an even sharper, bewildering bend.

"I do." And he did. What Free Folk didn't? Images of Orell, Varamyr, and Borroq quickly flitted past his mind's eye. "What off it?" Mance responded as neutrally as he could; he hadn't a clue what they would state or ask next.

"I believe too," the little man agreed. "And more beside, my son has the greensight."

He could hear the truth in the crannogman's voice. That perhaps explained much of how they knew to trap him and more. Yet … "Of Ned Stark believing you, and thus of the gathering Others, that I might believe. He is at least of the First Men. But this Andal, Southron one?" and Mance looked accusingly at the fat man.

Who promptly chuckled in evident agreement at the allegation.

"The King has his own magical sight. Different. But just as powerful in its Gods given way," the Lord of the Neck declared.

"And there are others too," the hollow, fat man added. "My brother has a Red God Priestess serving him. She sees the future, or possible futures, in the flames she worships. I've ordered her shipped to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea so that she might peer closer into the vastness beyond the Wall. Have you heard of her coming?"

Curious. He shook his head no. Much as he had heard of the Kneeler King coming to Winterfell, news of such a woman as that coming to the Night's Watch would have spread quickly through the lands beyond the Wall.

The Kneeler King pursed his lips and murmured, "Too bad."

"So you will allow the Free Folk to pass South?" he ventured hopefully, sensing he had allies. Was this why the chief kneeler had called for a council of the Northern Lords?

"A complicated question," the bloated stag responded, showing again how weak and vacillating he was. "The Night's Watch own the Wall. And the North would not tolerate your people as they are, free born marauders, coming through. I would let them pass. Every dead wildling is but one more wight in the Others' army. But in this, for now, my order would not be obeyed. The North does not trust wildlings to keep the peace. So there is no point in making it."

There was much to untangle in those words. All, or most, of it disappointingly true. What would it take for the likes of Rattleshirt, Styr, the Weeper, Tormund, or Harma to give up raiding? To give up the ways of the Free Folk? To … to kneel? With a sharp jerk to his mind, Mance refused to contemplate how horrible things must turn before that would happen. "When would your commends be obeyed?" he asked, seeing the nub that mattered.

"When Ned Stark and Jeor Mormont believe the Others in their hearts," the stag declared.

"And when the Free Folk prefer kneeling over death … or eternal slavery as wights," Howland Reed added ominously.

"The Horn of Joramun sounds lovelier and lovelier," he countered with sarcastic and deadly mirth. He had guessed the Others would not unleash their full might until Winter came. But when would that be? He did not believe in an Endless Summer, and this one had already lasted near ten years. The Stark family motto had weighed heavy on his heart the last few years as his knowledge of the growing threat became real.

"And destroy the only thing that might keep the Others and their wights out of where you want to flee? No," Robert Baratheon declared, looking and sounding a little less hollow than before. "As both sides wait, I can give you tools much stronger than a bluff."

Mance's look simply said tell me more and so the fat man did.

"Wildfire. Blades that will kill Others. Armor. Food and clothing. These things I can ship to you just north of Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. At least until Winter comes. Or more likely only until Autumn storms make the journey too hazardous for my fleet."

First thing first. "What blades?" That offered some hope, a chance to take one of the great enemy with you and not to die futilely; having your eyes turn bright blue.

The King of the Kneelers pulled out his dagger; revealing a rippled, intricately patterned metal.

Mance immediately laughed a bitter, gallows laugh. "Valyrian steel. You have a few thousand of these lying about to gift my people?"

"No. But I gift this to you. Pray you never have to use it." And he held it out in offering.

Before deserting, he had seen Lord Commander Mormont practice with Longclaw a time or two. Though angered at being mocked, he accepted the priceless blade gratefully, reverently. "What other weapons?" he insisted hotly. If there were none, the Fat Man had just passed over the cause of his own demise as far as Mance was concerned.

"Dragonglass," the kneeler announced with evident seriousness. And then drew a shiny black stone out of a pocket. He handed the finger length piece over to Mance. "Cut an Other with this and they melt. Unfortunately I've no idea whether they work on wights."

In his more than forty years, Mance had seen a few baubles of dragonglass, of obsidian. He knew not where the stuff came from. He snapped the sample in two, revealing a pair of jagged edges. Perhaps some sort of arrowhead could be constructed. A blade though? "You have more of this?" he demanded, not truly believing it would have any effect.

"Tons of it. My brother is Lord of Dragonstone. What do you think the island is mostly made of?"

He shrugged. What did he care, so long as the stuff worked as promised. "How soon before we can get some of this rock?"

"I must first return to King's Landing. Then a couple months after that. Time to mine and to ship. To Hardhome, I think," the fat man said. Mance noted he was no longer so sweaty as before. Nor did his hands shake so much.

"How soon till Winter? Do your magical seeing ways tell you that?" He did not know if the Free Folk had that time to wait. Did the kneelers know that was why he was asking? Would they tell him the truth? He thought he knew where the Horn was.

"There is nearly a year before the white ravens declare Autumn. Not until after the start of the new year, for certain. After that …" the fat man's eyes had the look of someone trying to remember ... "not until sometime in the year after that," he said hesitantly. The hesitancy actually gave the answer the air of truth.

Mance looked at Howland.

The crannogman shook his head no. "That my son has not shared with me."

Perhaps as much as two years before his needs against the Others would grow desperate. Much could change. Hopefully for the better. Especially if these Southroners words were true.

"There is already a cache of dragonglass weapons beyond the Wall," the stag declared.

"Where?"

"You know where the Fist of the First Men is?"

The Stag did have knowledge of Free Folks lore. "Of course."

"You will find a bag of weapons, probably left there a thousand years ago by the Children of the Forest, buried there no deeper than a dog or direwolf could dig. Discover it and you will see what sort of weapons I will ship you once I return to King's Landing."

Mance would have been more reassured of the statement if the kneeler hadn't next immediately drank deeply from his wine. So he looked over at the crannogman.

"Believe him. My son does, though it near drove Jojen to madness to do so," Howland Reed stated placidly, though something shifted ever so slightly deep within those green eyes.

"Your boy plays a part in this somehow, doesn't he?" Mance guessed. Greensight was rare. A First Man possessing it, even a boy, would use it against the Others; of that he had no doubt.

"One of several," the crannogman acknowledged.

"Will your son help change Stark's and Mormont's minds?" he guessed.

"My son … and my daughter, in a way," the little man acknowledged with an enigmatic air.

"Ned Stark and Jeor Mormont must make a Great Ranging together beyond the Wall. They must see the evil. Suffer from it. See their loyal men killed by wights and worse," the bloviated stag choked out, the smell of strong wine strong and the stench of fear on his breath; permeating the room.

This raised the hackles on Mance's neck. A ranging with even only the partial force of the North behind it bode ill for his people. One by the Night's Watch alone he could understand. Eddard Stark was a diligent Lord of Winterfell, but what would make him go beyond the Wall. Mance could pull his people back. The Horn was reputed to be along the Milkwater. Could this one's word alone send his friend beyond the Wall? He was unsure. What else might force Stark's hand, he wondered?

"What do your people know of a dead Black Brother, but not a wight, who rides a giant elk?" Howland Reed asked softly.


	19. Part 18 - The Crypt of Winterfell

"Up Stark! Up! We have matters of the Realm to chew over!" I thundered, pounding heavily on his door for good measure. What? Were the household guards on either side of the door going to try and stop me? Not bloody likely. It's good to be the king. And if I decided to barge right in? Well … best not put _that_ to the test.

It was both light outside (barely) and still so early that from the sounds of it not all of Winterfell was necessarily up and about their day's work. Westeros might have weird, unpredictable seasonal patterns for when and how long Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring lasted; but it did at least have a planetary tilt. Gods, I mean, God knows how big of a one.

Pound! Pound! Pound! (HULK SMASH!) My new body was fat, but Christ it was strong.

I had travelled something over a thousand ass grinding miles by horse in coming here, and by my guesstimate dawn was breaking at least an hour earlier than when I first borrowed (replaced? Permanently?) Robert. That meant we were heading towards the equinox, which likely meant Earth-ish Spring time; and that approximately matched my memory for "Robert's visit" in A Game of Thrones (book, not show) according to the handy Vandal excel spreadsheet timeline I had downloaded years ago from . Wish I could remember a whole crap load more from it than I did. Of had fucking access to the web site. That would be sweet.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

And speaking of Robert's body, despite my girth, I found it did have surprising reservoirs of energy at times. Despite another night of guilt induced, stress induced, wine induced tossing and turning; getting my lard ass moving, with an assist from Olyvar, Tweedle Dee, and Tweedle Dumbest, had not been that big of a problem. At least today ... could still have used a second beer, though.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

I licked my lips in anticipation. Only after this next nerve racking conversation concluded, I promised myself. Then my mind leapt to wondering if 'Abel' would shag tail this morning or keep hanging out a while longer. The Wildling had huge balls. Would he keep faith? Probably he was wondering the same about me. He was far from stupid; he hadn't respected me much to start, so he got that right.

"Get that frozen face out here, Stark! Your King demands the satisfaction of your icy presence! Forthwith!" Pound! Pound! Pound! (HULK SMASH!)

An unhappy, disheveled face appeared in the crack that had just appeared by the side of the door, so I refrained from bashing on it again. "Your Grace?" Ned Stark rasped with what little actual grace he could muster.

"Fine fellow. There you are, Ned. Come on. We've much to speak of, my friend."

"By all means, your Grace" Ned said with a pleasantness he surely didn't feel. "Dyver, can you show his Grace to my library." He gestured outward to one of the guards on duty. "I'll dress and we can speak comfortably anon."

Anon? Who says that, even in Westeros? I stopped my mental babbling and picked up the lantern that I had set down in order to lay proper Baratheon style siege to Eddard Stark's chamber door. "No. My tour of Winterfell isn't complete yet."

Understanding might have glimmered in those gritty, gray eyes. Tough to say for sure, but I charged on, regardless. "Grab some clothes, Ned. Give Cat a kiss. And come down quick. We can break our fast later," I declared; despite knowing my stomach might not be up for eating by that point. "Don't make your King wait long," I snarked and then promptly strode off for the staircase, not allowing him time to respond.

Meryn Trant and Tyrek scurried after me, it was the fuckers' job after all. Lancel, once done helping me robe, had been given other duties for the morning. And my third squire's post clothing job was to observe, either directly or through weaselly intermediaries, whether my first squire had done as ordered.

I had drunk through half of the enormous beer someone had fetched for me from the Great Hall's kitchens, number two for the day thank you very much, before the Lord of Winterfell showed himself. It's good to be the King. "Take me to her, Ned. I would pay my respects," I said with unRobert-like quiet respect. Sincere enough, I wondered?

"Of course, your Grace," the long dead girl's brother answered softly.

I stared into his face, looking for the sign of pleasure he reputedly felt in the books when Robert said those same words to him. Of course _that_ had been right at Bobby B's arrival in Winterfell, not the next day, like now. Unlike Old Robert, New Robert wanted to avoid THAT particular aggravation with Cersei; I was juggling enough with her already. So Butterflies abounded, and my dead dog's guess about what Ned was feeling right then was as good as mine. I was always terrible at reading body language … or just about any social clues. Nerd! (HULK SMASH!)

Finally, I nodded in agreement; giving up the attempt at empathetic discernment, and waived for him to lead me.

Winterfell may not have been the Red Keep, but it was far from small, that was for damn sure. We wove through the acres of Winterfell's grounds until coming upon a large door slanted between the ground and an old even for Winterfell looking building or tower or small keep.

I quickly looked for any signs of disturbance on the ground around the door. Nothing, good. "Stay here and make sure none enter until I return," I commanded the white cloaked shit. He grunted acceptance and moved to take up a standard guard position. How did he defeat Syrio anyway?

Next, I addressed my second squire. "Tyrek, at some point, you will likely have a choice to make today. The Queen will ask you where I went." She won't have Lancel to ask, at least for a while. "You can tell her the truth that I walked Winterfell with Lord Stark. Or you can tell her the more accurate truth that I visited the crypt of my first betrothed."

"Yes, your Grace," the barely teenager immediately parroted.

I stared at him meaningfully. The boy was beginning to get used to that 'there's more here' look from me. His light green eyes shifted a little, hinting at thought happening inside that handsome blonde head of his. "I … I think I understand, your Grace."

"There's no wrong answer, lad," I reassured him. "Actions have consequences – mine right here and yours when you decide what to tell the Queen. It's always better, if you have time, to think through those consequences before you act. I know I usually don't. But as you're my squire, best you try to learn what I failed at. Hmmn?"

He gave a boyish grin and nodded in agreement.

"Now go get some food. I can hear your stomach growling."

* * *

From up top, the winding, circular stone steps appeared narrow and a very long way down.

"That was a fine lesson you taught your squire," Ned complimented, as way of small talk as we started the descent.

"Tyrek's a good lad. Probably comes from losing his father." It never hurt to play up similarities. "Lancel on the other hand thinks cause he's a Lannister that his pretty shit doesn't stink," I growled, my tone very different than how I had described my mark's cousin. And the less said about the Frey in the squire mix the better I decided. I'd wait for Stark to bring his displeasure with that situation if he wanted to.

"I was surprised not to see her Grace's brothers in your party," Ned said, stepping carefully.

I hid the smile I felt. "Cersei's too fond of the one and too hateful of the other. Better chance for the truce I am trying for with her that they make themselves useful to the realm elsewhere than around my wife."

That remark caused an immediate lag in the conversation as we continued down. Of course last night at the feast the new dispositions of Jaime, Tyrion, and the Small Council had been mentioned, but with only minimal background detail. Now, I couldn't wait to see which way honorable Ned would go with his follow up question.

"I am sorry your Grace's marriage is not more than what you described it as when we were on Pyke."

Ahhh shit, hadn't seen that approach coming. "Nothing like yours and Lady Catelyn's," I barked with an accompanying ironic laugh. "Cersei can be a gold plated Lannister bitch at times, that's for sure. Can't blame her much, I am sorry to say Ned. I have been a shitten husband to her from the beginning. Though, with Jon's death, I have begun to make amends. She has not rejected them so far," I ended my mea culpa with a hopeful note.

"Hhhmmmn," the happily married Ned replied noncommittally.

Before too long, I started to sweat. And soon after, I paused as a bout of vertigo assailed me. I stopped and clutched a hand out to the rough wall of the stairwell. I crouched down to lower my giant noggin towards my knees so more blood might flow into it from my self-serving heart.

"Your Grace?"

"A moment. I'm fat and a drunk who hasn't had his morning souse yet. And stop calling me your Grace, we're alone now for fuck's sake, Ned." That sounded properly Robert-ish the part of me that wasn't spinning thought.

The pause was long ... then, "Aye, Robert." The short phrase held a depth of emotion not expressed by the stiff bastard of a 'best friend' at yesterday's arrival, nor during the evening's welcome feast.

"Being King is killing me, Ned. And the joke on me is I haven't bothered to make an effort at being a true King. Jon ran everything." My head was starting to clear. In the dim lantern light I saw only our two sets of foot prints scraped in the dusty steps. "Let's go on. The stairs is not where I want to have this talk with you ... or pass out," I added with a brief chuckle.

The bottom was at last reached. The air was stale and cold. The lantern's glimmer showed the hint of a long line of pillars. Ned led the way. I began to feel the sweat drying; it gave me a slight chill. The death statues set between the pillars were impressive and creepy. They went on for a ways. He stopped at the last three figures. No more human shaped sarcophagi were visible in the darkness past this point.

"Here," Ned said solemnly.

I held up the lantern and gazed at the unfamiliar faces on the three statues holding the bones of the man's closest family. I had long since remembered what Robert had said originally. I repeated it. "She was more beautiful than that. She deserved better than darkness. A hill with sun … and a breeze and flowers."

"She was a Stark of Winterfell. This is her place."

"It is," I agreed and let out an appropriately theatrical sigh. "The North does not do well in the South. Pity no one realized that then. But it's not too late, Ned," I declared. The tight mouth son of a bitch didn't rise to the bait. "You know _why_ I came don't you? Surely your Catelyn figured it out?"

"For the joy of my company, surely?" he japed as much as it was possible for him to joke. "And there is the Wall …"

"Stop for Chriii … for my sake. Your face may be frozen but your wits never were. I came to make you my Hand and to bind our houses together by marriage, my friend."

The Lord of Winterfell dropped a knee and spouted, "I am not worthy of the honor."

"Up Stark. Up. Of course you are worthy. No one is more worthy, and that's the problem. Your honorable stiff neck is not built to thrive in the sewer that is Kings Landing. And I have realized I could not bring another Northern flower to wilt in the heat of the South."

"Your Grace?" Ned asked in confusion.

I slapped his head, and none too gently. HULK SMASH! MAKE BUTTERFLIES! "The next 'your Grace' will find that frozen face of yours on a spike. I still have need of your counsel, Ned. And whether you know it or not, you've already been drawn into the plots swarming about me and the Realm."

Ned nodded very slowly, as if in thought. He still did not appear as if he would volunteer anything.

I sighed, for real. Must the man prove so difficult? "Before we speak more, I must ask you an odd question. It relates to my former Master of Whisperers?" A slight nod in response. "Has Jory or Vayon or Maester Luwin ever made note to you of any maimed urchins hanging about Winterfell or Wintertown? Children who had their tongues cut out?"

"That's monstrous! No, never!" he answered in surprise and with a heat that broke through his icy reserve. That was something, at least.

"Good. The Eunuch liked to humbly boast about his little birds providing him with news. We caught a few in King's Landing as I left. They read and write better than most nobles and knights. Varys brought them over from Pentos, dozens of mutilated children. Who would think wretches like those could be spies?"

"Repulsive. And clever," Eddard Stark admitted after a long, dangerous pause.

"And so Varys is now a head shorter. Howland?" I called.

From out of the stygian shadows of the crypt the swamp ninja silently emerged. Astonishment now showed quite plainly on that Stark face. "Nothing more than the signs of a months old tryst, your Grace," my chief Northern collaborator announced.

"I was worried that we might be spied on, Ned," I explained.

"What is going on, Robert? You have changed. And what man wouldn't change in the nine years since we last stood together in Pyke. But its more than that? More even than Jon's death. More than any possible worry over the Greyjoys thinking of another rebellion."

"I have changed, at long last. And hopefully for the better, old friend. Now it is time for you to change too. Tell the boy the truth, Ned. He is old enough; and Lya would want him to know, I think. Did you know he is thinking of joining the Night's Watch? I have need of him. The Realm has need of him," I proclaimed, leaping right to the main point of standing in front of his sister.

A look of betrayal … vast disappointment … swept across Eddard Stark's face as his eyes immediately went to Howland. And just as quickly the frozen mask dropped down.

"His Grace already knew, Ned," the crannogman said kindly. "I told him nothing of Lyanna, the Tower of Joy, and Jon."

The Alpha Male leapt to his pack's defense. "I won't let you kill him, Robert." The words were spoken with an icy promise of certain death.

If the threatening shift in mood hadn't scared me shitless, I would have laughed. This was Westeros. Someone was always trying to kill you; and the more important the character, the better the odds of it happening. "I do not desire his blood, Ned. I desire the service of his blood to help save the Realm."

Was Jon Snow the Prince Who Was Promised? Was he the one who would remake the bargain with the Others? Be the sacrifice to reset the Peace? Maybe. Probably. Certainly he was one of the two or three greatest keys to whatever the hell George Martin had planned to climax the series with, for good or ill. I repressed a gulp.

But was Jon becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch a mandatory condition for any of that? I prayed not, because I had already set a slew of Mothra sized butterflies in motion that would make the improbable run of events that in the original time line lead him to election become all the more remote.

"What service, Robert?" Ned asked stiffly; clearly not willing to be assuaged by my seemingly calm, placating tone.

"You found a direwolf killed by a stag, Ned. It was an omen," Howland said softly. "His Grace is trying to keep that and many other greater evil omens from happening."

Hard grey eyes searched my pudgy, bearded, sweaty face. Fifteen years ago it might have looked like the face of a savior. Now? I could barely hold eye contact with the man.

"The pups were saved. One for each of your children. And one for Lyanna's son," There, I had said it aloud. "Those are good omens."

"What service, Robert?" Ned asked again.

"A dangerous one, Ned. I want to send him with Ser Barristan to Essos."

A pause. Consideration. The name of Ser Barristan assigned honor to any endeavor, as Tywin would likely no longer point out. "Why?"

"Daenerys Targaryen has married a great Dothraki warlord. Varys has an Aegon Targaryen, most likely just another Blackfyre bastard, living on the Rhoyne with Lord Jon Connington; and a secret contract with the Golden Company. The Martells remember Princess Elia and her children. They would support any attempt to overthrow me; including marrying Arianne to Viserys Targaryen," I nervously rattled off without a stop.

Breath. Speak slowly. "Jon could be the bridge that brings peace between my house and the Targaryens," I continued. We did not need to tell him the whole truth, just enough of it; that which he could possibly believe. Not the 'Thar be Dragons here!' part.

"Jon looks like a Stark, not a … Targaryen," Ned said, pointing out the obvious; and by default acknowledging the truth of Jon's birth.

Which wouldn't matter a damn when … well, if … he starts warging with a dragon ... I hope. And, that assumed the three heads aren't butterflied away by my not ordering an assassination attempt against Dany. In which case, great … one fewer problem … unless the dragons are needed against the Others … then we're all fucked and it's time to sail for the Summer Islands and drink and screw my way to a pleasanter death. My belly started turning sour, too many damn possibilities; and I was not writing the fixfic this time.

"The ancient maester at Castle Black is a Targaryen. He is still hale enough to make the sea journey with Ser Barristan and Jon. The blind dragon will see the way to make them believe," Howland explained. The unimposing swamp ninja had proven an excellent sounding board from Moat Cailin to Winterfell for my ideas, strategies, and tactics. And Ned's trust in him was likely greater right now than it was for this fat, drunken, washed up knight.

"And he will know how?"

Stark wouldn't let it go. I wanted to scream in frustration. I wanted to scream of all the destruction hurtling like a giant red comet of death straight at Eddard Stark and his family's heads. Instead, "Why don't you first just tell Jon the truth of his birth?" I asked as reasonably as I could.

Hard grey eyes stared at me.

Maybe I hadn't sounded all that reasonable. I drew my dagger and knelt on the cold stony floor, where I realized I was sweating all over even more profusely than I'd thought in spite of the cold depths beneath Winterfell. "On my honor as a knight and before the Seven, I swear I will not by word or deed reveal to Jon Snow who his natural parents are. Nor purposefully seek his death."

At that promise, Ned did nod in satisfaction. "I must speak to my lady wife first."

"Yes, that is the proper thing to do," I agreed, wanting to be a fly on the wall when that conversation happened. Now where to steer the conversation next? The Night's Watch? Wildlings? The coming Council of the North? Jon Arryn's death? Jon Arryn's poisoning? I wondered when, or if, that coded message would be left for Maester Luwin to find. My rearrangement of the Small Council? Who I would in fact make my Hand? A more Robert-esque when could we go riding and hunting? Could I please get something to drink?


	20. Part 19 - The Soul of a Kraken

[ **Author's Note** : This chapter covers approximately a month's worth of time; chronologically starting between Parts 13 and 14 (the Neck) and ending between Parts 18 and 20 (in Winterfell).]

The Reaver's Reward was crowded and raucous; no surprise with the number of longships currently pulled up on the Lordsport beach – a coincidence despite the fact that Balon was in fact working stealthily to fully recreate the Iron Fleet, just not as so obvious a spot as Lordsport. How the Iron Throne had gotten ill wind of the plot, as cleverly disguised as a cuttlefish, remained a mystery; even with the Stag's emissary on the island.

Otter Gimpknee must be raking in silver by the handful, she thought; and more. Word in Pyke was of the new come Greenlander spreading coin by the boat loads. Dangerous actions for any lacking a warrior's skill, and most with it, around Ironborn; let alone while in the Iron Islands themselves. Yet this so called 'Lord' Baelish both still lived and continued to fail to officially present himself to the Greyjoy and the Seastone Chair.

Asha had found herself intrigued by the gossip that reached her ear of this impudent little lordling, so she had ridden in heavily cloaked and well hooded on a nondescript nag from her family's castle. The fact that her two week stay in Pyke after bringing _Black Wind_ home from Dorne and the Arbor had begun to wear also might have played some small part in the decision. Her father could be enormously infuriating at times, even to his favorite.

As drunken sailors sang, busty wenches served more ale, fighters boasted of their prowse, whores rubbed against the lecherous, true Ironborn demonstrated their prowse, and Otter's barmen tapped the unending supply of casks, Asha stayed to the sides, mostly in the shadows, noting who was present and who wasn't.

That almost in the corner table looked like a good spot, she decided; so out slid her dagger as she glided along by the wall. Brawny armed Urri spied her coming, a possible flicker of awareness in his brown eyes, but smartly chose to ignore her unimposing, cloaked figure as it approached.

Her pert arse descended on one of Dagon Foambeard's thick thighs and an arm slipped part way around his broad back. "I want your chair?" she whispered in the surprised ear of the _Dark Cloud's_ sailing master.

"Ho, do you now lass!? Well I want a walrus sized cock to pleasure you with, but my own will …" he rejoined lustfully, having noted little beyond a seductive woman's voice talking to him.

She pressed her blade hard enough to pierce his leather jerkin and introduce it to the flesh over the man's kidney. "And I want it now," Asha continued sweetly.

That got the strong man's attention, his head pivoting to look fully into her face through the darkness cast by the low hanging hood. His eyes widened in surprise, recognizing her.

His mouth started to open, so she promptly plastered her lips over his. Dagon's eyes widened even further, in a different, more pleasurable way. Foamtongue more like it she decided before yanking back, lest the sail master get any unwanted ideas. "Don't say I did not give you fair exchange for your seat."

The man laughed at his defeat in the pleasurable game. "Nay. And then some … lass. Now get up before I spill your sweet arse on the rushes and I forget myself," he declared, shifting a meaty leg slightly to show he meant it.

The swap was made without any more fuss. Urri looked at her. She stared back just as hard at her left side fourth rower. He finally shrugged, took a long pull at his beer, and with proper cocky insolence decided to slowly look elsewhere in the tavern room. Asha only recruited the best for the _Black Wind_.

* * *

Asha was glad of her disguise. The Greenlander had clearly managed to recruit Sigurd Slipknot: amiable acquaintance to all, friend to none; rumor monger; last in, first out; vicious; and, cowardly. Nevertheless, she grudgingly admitted the captain of the _Riptide_ did run a fairly taut ship with the scum sworn to him. Here there were too many of those cronies, as well as serving wenches and whores, drifting between Slipknot's table and this Baelish creature's for it to be otherwise; even though they tried to hide it by stops at varying tables in-between.

She noted that the smug, slightly amused smile never left the Greenland lordling's face, nor his eyes from watching, regardless of who, or what was, whispered in his ear. Asha wondered what news or signals or bribes were being passed. Not counting herself or Slipnot, five other captains and three first mates were drinking Gimpknee's spirits.

Two of them, though not lords, were renowned enough Ironborn to have a smattering of allies among the unpledged longships. Haereg Longbottom, a big man just starting to whitecap around the temples, called Saltcliffe his home port. Stinger Myres was younger, leaner, and near bald with no port as home since her nuncle, the Reader, had forbidden him Harlaw docking rights for stealing both of cousin Sigfryd's saltwives.

And of course the two captains despised each other. As ever between feuding men and ships, a joint raid where one earned the prize and the other a pool of blood gathering below the gunnels lay at the heart of it. What had brought both men here, tonight?

They were at the heart of what was going on in the Reaver's Reward, Asha was certain of it as she drank through her third piss poor ale in the shadows. A silver stag to the serving wench and the point of her dagger to the entrance straits of the slattern's cunt having insured silence of her presence. She could almost feel the growing tension, like when a mackerel first takes the hook and the line spools off as the mighty fish unknowingly tries to sprint away.

How exactly, she mulled over? The usual drunken, Ironborn games of skill and dominance were playing out like any other evening; however, more of it than normal involved, was directed at, the men of both the _Tarpon's Teeth_ and the _Thunder Turtle_. But not directly between the two crews.

And most of the instigators, as far as could trace through the crowded inn's barroom, had not been in contact with Slipnot's pack of bilge thralls. Though she admitted they may have been bribed before she gained notice of them. Too many eddies and currents in the common room to keep track of all of them.

"Watch," grunted Urri in amusement, not bothering to turn his head towards her.

A new Finger Dance was starting.

One of the two was off the _Thunder Turtle_ , she couldn't remember his name. The sailor was skilled. And his foe was a near ragged greybeard already missing one and a half fingers on one hand and half a finger on the other.

Sloppy she thought. The old Ironborn was too slow and clumsier than was good for him. What madness had driven him to dance?

There wasn't much enthusiasm in the tavern room for this game.

"A Moon on old Fishhook," Urri suddenly yelled out.

That wasn't for Haereg's man; she at least knew that wasn't the sailor's name. And it was a significant piece of silver for her rower to risk on an errant throw. She chanced a glance over at him.

Voices quickly rose to accept his bet. Uri pointed at the sailor whose offer was three to one; ignoring her.

Three more bets, all seeking odds for the old man, rang out quickly now that first odds were laid. None of those bettors on the old man were young themselves. There was a rush of counters to take the easy coin. The "Fishhook's" cloak gained another gash as again he just got out of the way of the handaxe's sharp bite.

Through the noise, Asha barely heard her rower begin to speak in a quiet voice. "Saw him near my father's village on Orkmont when my face was still spotty and your tits hadn't yet sprouted. The man was a slippery eel in the jig. Hadn't heard he still danced, or left his hovel."

An eel? That. He barely snagged the axe and his return throw was slow and … realization set in and Asha squinted all the harder to watch, cursing whenever her view was cut off by some miserable drunk cunt.

"A dragon for Fishhook," a man drunkenly shouted.

The whole room murmured at that; a very stiff bet, even for a seemingly sure thing; which this had all the appearance of definitely not being.

"Who's the balls for it?" the man shouted again, this time holding up a glimmer of gold to prove his stake.

He looked familiar. Iron Isles born, but not a true Ironborn. Ran a cog for some Greenland merchant. Ficon something or other.

"I'll take ya up on it ya little Tern shit," the _Thunder Turtle's_ First Mate bellowed, gaining a growl of approval from his captain and the other's around his table.

"What odds, ya big Tern shit?" the hired captain taunted back.

"None for you, coin merchant," laughed the first mate, scornfully. Creed Goodmine, name and recognition slipping into Asha's brain.

"Penniless? Afraid an old man will beat your boy?" he cackled, and then hopped about to emulate a man losing his fingers.

The dangerous dance continued as taunts and counter-offers flew across the room like the axes.

The pair of bettors grudgingly settled on three to one odds.

And "old" Fishhook quickly grew faster and nimbler than before.

This was it. Whatever the night's tensions were. Asha felt it in her gut, same as how the wind and sea whispered to her how best to steer the _Black Wind_ in a storm.

The graybeard neatly caught the axe and suddenly spun full about, his now shredded cloak puffing up and twirling like a cyclone of rain and fog. Asha barely saw the grey steel leave the equally grey cloud of wool true as a harpoon strike.

The sailor hesitated a split second, dodge or catch, and with it lost the dance: offhand clutched at the crimson spewing stumps of the strong hand. A cheer erupted at the old man's (not so) surprise victory.

"Pay up. Pay up," chortled the coin captain, moving towards the _Thunder Turtle's_ table.

"I'll pay your gold tomorrow. Have to get it from my ship," Creed Goodmine said barely loud enough to be heard over all the noise.

"Thief! Swindler!"

The room let out a chorus of disgust that the man didn't have the gold on hand to settle his debt.

The First Mate looked ashamed and angry, but not … the way he should have.

"Shove a pricklefish up your arse, Bottommine," the hired captain shrieked, jabbing an accusing finger within feet of the other's face. "Pay me now!"

"I said tomorrow."

"Now!" And the cog's captain snatched out a knife, trying for the iron price to win his earnings. Or not.

The _Thunder Turtle's_ First Mate moved with envious speed to come out of his chair with a blocking arm, deflecting the blow … straight into Haereg Longbottom's neck, where he had sat beside Creed Goodmine.

Asha didn't bother to look to know that Stinger Myres, Sigard Slipnot, and 'Lord' Petyr Baelish were all smiling inside, if not outwardly. Or that the coin captain would not leave the Reaver's Reward alive. And that the First Mate would become the _Thunder Turtle's_ next captain by night's end.

In the resulting tumult, she slipped out of her seat in the shadows and went to look for Otter Gimpknee so that she could bribe him to lay her own fix in.

* * *

The door to the bedchamber opened, revealing Baelish with some poxed whore. The dagger she had been patiently toying with the past hour whipped past the big titted seacow's head; to bury an inch of steel into the outer hallway's far wall. Why did men always choose useless udders first for their bedmates?

The stupid cunt gasped, as if she'd never seen a knife thrown before in the Reaver's Reward. The Greenlander however had instinctively pivoted slightly, but quickly, in case the blade had been aimed at him. Which it hadn't been. Asha intended to give this Baelish something much more dangerous instead.

Before she could proceed with a "He's mine tonight slut," or some other clever insult, in order to claim ownership over the Greenlander's unimposing body; the slightly built man simply shoved the whore out of his way and strode into his bedchamber with an intriguing grin on his face.

"And what are you named … lovely?"

Asha wasn't sure if that was a question or a compliment. She knew she wasn't a beauty with her too big nose and slender breasts, but exuded a charisma that did draw men to her. "Egrid, if it please you, milord?" she replied with an exaggerated timid voice while all the while she stretched and flaunted her taut, barely clad, body even more for his blatant observation.

He laughed in a most pleased and sexual way. Without taking his eye of her, a trailing foot pushed the door closed behind him; the plump breasted slut already long forgotten by the look on his face. "Oh, it pleases me greatly … Egrid. You're no dull salt wife or dreary used up slut, are you?"

"I could be if you wished it, milord," she half whispered coquettishly, playing the game. Now up close, Asha could appreciate the understated wealth of the little man's attire. Any half decent trader who spent time in Lannisport, Oldtown, Arbor, Sunspear, and more importantly the Free Cities, should spot the delicate, muted dyes in the finest cut silks and velvets. While a brainless sailor or too fixated on the old ways Ironborn would spy nothing flashy worthy stealing or fighting over to pay the iron price. The only splash of color was the small silver bird shaped clasp for his cloak.

Amusement glinted in his hazel eyes. "I doubt that," he laughed, pausing by the side of the feather bed upon which her nubile form rested in alluring repose. He looked her up and down and up again. "But if you need incentive, saucy one?" A hand shot out quick as a tiger shark to slip down her untied bodice to tweak a nipple, hard.

Before the offending hand could be withdrawn, her mouth lashed out just as fast so that the Greenlander could feel her teeth, not unbearably, on the fleshy part of his forearm.

Surprisingly, he didn't try to jerk away. His answer to her attack was to simply smile down at her with a glimmer in his eyes. This one liked some pain with this pleasure. After a pause, his free hand undid the bright silver clasp to let the muted cloak drop to the floor. "Some bites are enjoyable and some very, very naughty … Egrid."

Then with an unexpected strength he grabbed Asha's hair and yanked back her head; her teeth coming away with traces of skin and blood. "Let's see how you taste?" he added, putting a knee on the bed so he could lower himself to press lips hard against hers.

Their mouths and teeth and tongues dueled, while the Emissary from the Iron Throne refused to release his grip on her. This "lord" teased as much as he battled. Soon a hand from each was added into the fray. She discovering a respectable growing lump. Not large, but thankfully not small either. And him? Well, it had been over two weeks, and she felt herself responding accordingly.

Finally his dominating hand used Asha's hair to turn her face aside from their kiss, away from his lips.

"I've fucked the daughters of a Lord Paramount, but never a Princess … till now … Asha," the man whispered with both amusement and urgency into her ear. The bastard had known who she was all along! And then his attention slid lower down her body, making her gasp in pleasure.

* * *

Petyr's silent eyes followed her wandering hand over his naked body in the slowly lightening gloom trying to edge in through the morning fog outside and into the bedchamber through the cracks in the shutters.

The scars were fearsome and respectable of a warrior. And thankfully not disfiguring to the extent of say, Dagmer's. Few would be the man, Ironborn or Greenlander, who could survive the wounds that caused them.

Satisfied with the investigation she had not had time the night before to perform, her dark eyes looked questioningly into his lighter, yet brooding, grey-green ones.

"I told you I fucked the daughters of a Lord Paramount. That comes with a cost when a simple lordling does it," he answered her unspoken question; the bitterness barely detectable.

Tully or Tyrell, if he told the truth. His accent was part Vale, but also part Riverlands, with only a smidgeon of King's Landing. Likely the Tullys then; with one married to the Stark – where Theon was, long may he keep in Winterfell – and the other the widow of the Arryn. Useful information to know, even if only to be used as a believable lie.

"A tall iron price to pay for some cunts," she responded disdainfully.

He grunted an odd half laugh. "I didn't. I lost. To the elder's betrothed. That was what brought the stupid, sweet things to my bed," he explained without evident emotion.

Was the Greenlander hiding the contempt and shame an Ironborn should feel at a woman's pity? "Was the pleasure worth the pain?" Asha prodded, wanting to keep Petyr talking in order to learn more of him.

"The pleasure? No. But the knowledge?" His answering smile to his own question was dark and twisted.

Yes, he hates, Asha decided; feeling it beating through his heart like a rowers' drum. Hate at whom exactly, she wondered? Was that knowledge part of what had allowed the lordling to rise so high in the Green Lands?

"Nothing so sweet as your passion," he added, while starting to paw at her to prove the point and likely to distract her.

"And nothing soft about your iron," she complimented him back; grasping at his sprouting cockstand. "And did you get your revenge?" she whispered of something else also deliciously sweet.

"Not yet, Princess. When I do, I will not leave my enemies alive," Petyr promised.

The tupping that followed with the tool of Petyr Baelish was exquisite.

* * *

Once the emissary presented himself at the Pyke Gatehouse, it was typical Balon to let the Greenlander stew in the Bloody Keep for as many days as he had insolently piddled away in the Reaver's Reward. The lordling was at least allowed the benefit of feasting in the Great Keep any evening her father deigned not to leave the Sea Tower.

Asha "secretly" enjoyed her tool those days or nights when only guards and servants accepting her coin were on duty. But she knew without once bothering to consciously think of it that word of her trysts or conspiracies would inevitably reach the ear of her Father or of her nuncle Victarion and even possibly her dour nuncle Damphair; as well as a score and more of the sycophants and backstabbers who infested her family's castle like so many barnacles.

Finally the Emissary of the Iron Throne was presented before the Seastone Chair.

"Speak what you came to say, Greenlander, then scurry back to your master lest I club you down like the seal pup you are," her father growled.

That amused smile slide across Petyr's face at the threat. "Lord Greyjoy, the Iron Throne commands you to abide by the vows of your surrender. The Iron Fleet is to number no more than fifty ships."

And that was all that was said; not a long winded, flowery speech full of driveling that must be gutted apart like a fish to find the kernel of it as most Green Lands' lordlings spoke.

"And if your lies were true, what would you do?" he hissed evilly. It was never advisable to remind Balon of the defeat that had cost him three sons, but given him a fourth.

"King Robert advised me to play _The Rains of Castamere_ for you, my lord. Alas, I forgot to bring a bard and my singing voice was never the best."

"You jape at the Kraken!?" Balon roared, his thin form briefly filling out to resemble the vigorous man Asha remembered from before the sack of Pyke.

"I thought I threatened, Lord Greyjoy. Was I not clear?" her lordling placidly answered.

"And you are prepared to pay the iron price for it?"

"If my lies were true? No. I came with no fleet, my Lord Greyjoy. No guards. Not even a servant. And my dagger is barely fit for stabbing the fish in the nightly stews here. Sadly, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm would; should he have cause and the time to do it."

"The Iron Isles are none of those Green Land things," Father spat contemptuously.

"An interesting point. One the King might not agree with."

"Should you live to tell him," the Greyjoy threatened.

Her lordling gave a short bow. "Should I live," he agreed, having taken little of the advice she'd offered him the last week in how best to handle Balon.

"Go! Before I change my mind and sacrifice you to the Drowned God."

"What is dead may never die!" shouted Damphair, to signify the end of the audience.

"But rises again, harder and stronger!" the hall responded with the thunder of a tidal wave.

* * *

Asha pretended the damp, drafty cold of her father's salon in the Sea Tower didn't bother her. The hearth wasn't lit, with only small brazier next to Balon's seal skin covered body providing any heat. Of course her nuncles showed complete indifference. They had been ordered to come in the middle of the night, so they had dutifully come at their elder brother's bidding.

In truth, it was none worse than a brief, cold shower taken in while she bestrode her beloved _Black Wind_. There she had freedom. As a captain she was King of her deck. While here, she worried she was once again an awkward, pimply girl trying to live up to the expectation of being Balon's only surviving son.

Conversation had been desultory at best; wine absent, though surely Damphair would have shared his skin of saltwater if asked.

A guard tapped on the door. "The Greenlander."

So her lordling had survived crossing the three bridges. Asha could not wait to see whether the experience had shaken Petyr's calm, wry outward composure.

The door opened. No, her lordling's demeanor appeared the same as he pulled back the hood on the cloak that had tried to disguise his form and face in the darkness. A useful, if small, test of her tool's resilience.

"Lord Greyjoy. Lord Captain. Priest. Captain," the Greenlander evidenced as casual greetings to those in the room. No "princess" for her here.

Balon scowled. No surprise. "My son tells me not to flay your soft hide and feed the bloody pulp to the crabs. Speak."

Only her father's guards had kept Baelish in his room the two days since his audience. Asha was as curious as her father as to what exactly her lordling would say.

"If the Ironborn had struck for themselves during the Rebellion, that would have been one thing. But this is no longer the Westeros of Harwyn Hardhand or even Harren the Black. You must bide your time before you openly proclaim yourself King, your Grace. The realm must be in rebellion again."

"Why?" Damphair asked, not trusting a Greenlander and unbeliever.

"To climb higher in the chaos that would follow. You are not the only lord to dream of being a king, your Grace. Or of paying the iron price to grasp what he desires." And like that first morning they woke together in bed, Petyr Baelish voice did hold forth with that dark desire that drove him behind his aloof, amused self.

"How?" demanded nuncle Victarion sternly.

"I would leave the battles to those trained to fight them, Lord Captain. But with his Grace's aid, I can make the Seven Kingdom's tear themselves a part. And like a pack of sharks, you can devour the weak and wounded at your leisure."

"Large promises, lordling. Where is the iron proof in your words," Asha prodded.

His light grey-green eyes twinkled mischievously. "Oh, there are many things I could tell. But only two will I share until our bargain is made before the Drowned God."

Damphair snarled menacingly at his god's invocation. Balon leaned forward in his chair and commanded in a rasping voice, "Agreed."

Asha stifled a laugh, in her mind's eye she saw her lordling receiving the kiss of life as part of the bargain before the Drowned God.

"The Iron Throne survives only on the loanes made it by the Iron Bank, the Faith of the Seven," whose mention caused Damphair to spit into the rushes, "and the Lannisters. Eight million dragons worth, and they only know of six of it. I may lack the skill to Finger Dance, but I can make gold disappear like a cutoff digit," the Green Lands' Master of Coin bragged to those least impressed by it.

"Bah," Victarion scorned by way of proof.

"Gold may mean little to you, Lord Captain. But don't underestimate its power over those who crave it more than battle and honor."

"What else, little man," her father chastised.

"Besides the mother and regent of the Vale's new underaged Lord Paramount wanting nothing more than my cock in her velvet purse?" Baelish gave away. "Why, Robert Baratheons three children are all bastards."

Asha saw her nuncle's face twitch at the news.

"By who?" her father commanded. Like Asha, he had immediately seen that mere bastardy need not cause a war to be launched. Revenge and killing, yes. A broader war across Westeros, hardly.

"By Cersei's own brother, the Kingslayer," her lordling smirked.

A satisfied, far seeing smile settled across Balon's face and he eased back into his chair. "Yes. That might work. Lion versus Stag. Dorne alone. The Reach not trusting the Tyrells. And the North too far, too far." He chuckled. And then, "What of my other son, Theon?"

"Living ten years with the _noble_ Eddard Stark as his foster-father? You would find half or more of a wolf trying to swim to Pyke; likely with a Redwyne or Hightower wife and fleet hanging about his neck if you move too soon." her lordling shrugged to show his indifference to the prospect.

Asha smiled inside.

* * *

"When must you leave?" she gasped through her exertion

"Soon," he answered, eyes unfathomable as usual.

That was true. There were only so many ravens that could be sent speaking of records taken from reluctantly ship wrights and Iron Islands lords telling a semi-plausible story of new ships unrelated to the Iron Fleet and of replacements to old Iron Fleet hulls; and of how much time it took to collect all this 'evidence'.

Oh her lordling was a wizard of making coin and what coin could buy disappear. But clever enough to include suspicion in his reports that he wasn't being paid fully fair by the Greyjoys so that he had some doubt. Wonderfully and dangerously two-faced.

She grunted in response. A different grunt from those already issuing from her as she rode him. She had done that every night since he had arisen from the sea, harder and stronger ... very much harder.

Would he be her prince when she became Queen?

Hardly. 'Foolish chit,' she chided herself. That was her loins clouding her mind. An axe was her lord husband and her dagger her suckling child. No Ironborn would respect her if she chose some slight Greenlander as a consort. Or even as an advisor.

He must go. And soon. She was tainted enough in her nuncles eyes. He could only be the invisible wind in her sail. And an unreliable wind at that.

* * *

Another evening of planning and fighting had ended in the Sea Tower. False reports had not been the only missifs sent out by Pyke's ravens. Her lordling's reach went far. Farther than the rope bridge that led to the first landing mount. Plots took time to develop.

As always she danced out a head, almost running. It was no trickier than leaping across the out oars on the _Black Wind_. The Greenlander in fact showed no fear of the swaying path; having told her of what the assent to the Eyrie entailed, she believed him.

When he had come halfway, she turned about and dashed back towards him. He paused, watching her. Some surprise came to his eyes.

She stepped on the knotted cord in front of him, swaying easily in tune with the bridge. She shouted over the loud breeze from the Sea, "Kiss me if you can, my lordling. I ache for you." Ache she did.

In the dark, she saw the whiteness of his returning, wry smile. "Aren't you the saucy and naughty one … Egrid," her tool teased her.

"I am," she agreed. And then gave him a sharp shove.

Petry Baelish began to fall. Arms and legs splayed, one twisting amongst the ropes.

"Asha!" he shouted.

She bent down and gave the offending leg a push. He started to go.

A hand reached out desperately to grab on to something, anything.

"It's for the best," she answered, lashing out with a boot to dislodge him.

Petyr Baelish plummeted towards the cold, dark sea.


	21. Part 20 - A Trout in the North

"Lady Catelyn," a man's voice called softly.

She nearly jumped at the unexpected greeting. The passage between the rear of the Great Hall and the kitchens, off of which Vayon Poole's office sat, was poorly lit, but not so dark that she shouldn't have seen someone coming. "Lord Howland, you startled me," she admitted sheepishly.

His slight frame bowed in acknowledgement of the mild accusation, a polite smile as always on his face. "My apologies, there is much that must be done to make a royal visit go so smoothly," he both complimented and gracefully gave an excuse for her.

That was true. Though easier when, like this morning, the king rode out for the day; this time taking Benjen, Hullen, Jory, a few of Winterfell's guardsmen, some of his court, and that pack of weasels to the Wolfswood. That had only left the Queen for Cat to worry about; and her Grace, when last checked upon, had appeared well occupied in the Glass Garden with her ladies-in-waiting, a bard, and her cousin Lancel. "A great honor to serve his Grace," she replied with automatic sincerity, as any Great Lady should.

"Robert is far changed from the man I met at Harrenhal," Howland Reed suggested, putting the perspective of near twenty years on things. "But not so far different that he does not remember his friends or ignores the generous efforts made on his behalf."

"My lord husband has a great friend in the King," she agreed; despite the fact that his friend's changes and private words had seemed to make her normally taciturn Ned even more brooding. "And his Grace has been most generous in his praise of Winterfell," she added proudly. Almost too generous. The man did not act as she expected a King or a Great Lord should. No, perhaps not so true, she corrected herself. While definitely not properly regal, Robert Baratheon did not act so far different than her Ned did when the castle was blessedly free of distinguished visitors; her home.

Sigh. Those thoughts only reminded her that the Northern Lords would soon begin inundating her home the same way the Red Fork and the Tumblestone swelled when the snows melted in springtime. She missed Riverrun. And quick as it came, she buried her childhood sentiment. Her efforts to maintain Ned's and their family's honor for the North, as any Great Lady must strive for, had barely begun.

"And better behaved than I remember too," her lord husband's small friend added with the tiniest and sliest of smirks.

Catelyn wanted to giggle in agreement at that small gibe at the King. Even in the North, there were tales of Robert Baratheon's legendary appetites. Thankfully none of those had been on display … yet. No willing or unwilling serving maids to be quietly handled. No drunken outbursts to smooth over or pretend never happen. Even the infamous Lannister woman, as Ned liked to refer to Cersei, was acting with surprising subdued haughtiness - watching the King … almost like a … jealous wife?

"His Grace has shown the utmost respect to Winterfell," Cat allowed herself to declare aloud, an almost exact duplicate of her last statement. "And you did not wish to ride with his Grace this morning, Lord Howland?" she asked, seeking to turn the conversation to safer ground. King's, despite claims of friendship, were notoriously fickle of their pride; Catelyn would allow nothing that could be ill twisted to reach his, or her, ears.

"No, my lady. I am more accustomed to boats than horses. If the King wished to go around your moat, I would gladly join him," the crannogman chuckled softly, and Catelyn joined him with an appropriate smile of amusement. "Instead, I thought I would take opportunity of the absent Stag's missing exuberance to spend a few quiet moments in the Godswood. That's where I left your lord husband, before I came in search of …," and Howland pointed vaguely back towards the kitchens.

SevenHells, she wanted to curse; but of course didn't, she was a Great Lady. Her temper was less refrained, though she hid it from her lordly guest and friend of her husband. The House turned upside down, with worse still to come, and Ned retreats to his precious Godswood?

 _She_ wanted to visit the sept for an hour's sweet peace, but did she? No. There was a House to run. A future to assure for her children. And Ned … "A lovely thought, Lord Howland. Now pray excuse me, there is much to oversee before his Grace's party returns for tonight's feast," she explained, hiding her ire.

The unimposing crannogman smiled and bowed at his polite dismissal.

* * *

Once out of the Great Hall, Catelyn passed by the Sept on her way to the Great Keep. She did not stop as she wished, though she did ask the _Mother_ for the patience and strength to endure men; particularly infuriating good men. She acknowledged to herself she might return later to have Septon Chayle lead her in a prayer of repentance. But only later.

She urgently swept up three staircases and then made the turn towards the doorway for the bridge over the main courtyard. As had become a regular occurrence since her royal guests arrival, Ser Rodrik as Master-of-Arms was supervising sparring sessions, tourney blades only, between Starks and Baratheons. She had no intention of disrupting the boys bonding by storming through them on her march to the Godswood. So the surreptitious …

Him.

Ned's bastard and his mute, white wolf spied her instantly too. More heat came to her cheeks. Cut out of participating with his betters he might have been, but still he lingered about; watching them through the window frame cut in the covered bridge. Spying. Her face set itself even more sternly.

With barely a bow in her direction, she watched Jon Snow and his off colored beast beat a hasty retreat into the Armory. She did not slow her pace. She increased it. Woe to him if she caught up to him. Winter was coming, bearing the icy storm of her righteous Tully fury. The natural born son of her husband's seed, who looked more like a Stark than her own true born boys, had best avoid her wrath if he ...

Mikken's hammering made a different, louder, more regular sound than the intermittent clash of tourney swords outside or the beating of the heart inside her aching chest. Apprentices and servants smiled, murmured her name, and properly bowed low as she walked rapidly through them, making her way down to ground level. She made her exit undisturbed, the bastard having safely melted away into some safe nook in the castle grounds.

From the backside of the Armory, she headed for the southwest gate to the Godswood; her ire at Ned's shirking of duty unabated, if not increased by Jon Snow's presence, as she entered the quiet alien Northern heart of her husband's soul and House. Family, Duty, and Honor were not easy words to live up to; loving could be harder still.

* * *

There Ned sat, oblivious to Winterfell's concerns. Lost in thoughts that even after fifteen years of marriage he could never satisfactorily explain to Catelyen where they and his Old Gods took him. His handsome, noble visage showed nearly the same blank mask he gave outsiders. Nearly, but subtly different; the man she loved had many masks.

Above his head, the obscene face on the albino heart tree stared at her; red eyes following her Southron intrusion. The bleeding sap that oozed out of the cuts made in honor of the old, dead, nameless Gods of the North hid less than her lord husband, as they tried to pierce her thoughts and drive her Seven believing soul away.

Though the heavy ground cover of leaves and needles muffled her quick, hard footfalls to near silence, Ned's mind was not so far away that her movements weaving between the pools and gnarled, thick trunks of the other trees populating the eerie Godswood did not fail to gain his notice. "Catelyn, where are the children?" he asked, as he almost always did.

Today, she would not let him hide behind the familiar ritual. Winterfell hosted the King and his court. The Lords of the North would soon descend like locusts. And here the Lord Paramount sat on a mossy stone; helping his House, their House, not at all. "Jon Snow refuses to stay away from the royal family," she snapped, breaking their routine greeting and taking him unawares.

And in less time than it took for Catelyn to gather her next breath, Ned's face shifted through a dozen well known looks – pain, anger, fear, hope, resolution, love, wariness, protection, joy, husband, father, lover, warrior, and lord. Words suddenly caught and died at the back of her mouth, she knew not why; other than that for perhaps the very first time she saw that all of his masks were both there and utterly absent in any conviction.

"Robert wants Jon to go to King's Landing with him," Ned announced with fear and pain by way of response.

What? The King wanted the bastard? Confusion flooded and overwhelmed Cat's other emotions. In bed the second night of the King's visit, Ned had told her of the King's words that while he had once intended to make Ned Hand and bind their houses together by marriage; that was no longer his wish. " _Northern flowers wilt in the heat of the South._ " Then what becomes of snow?

That news had hurt her pride and her heart. Sweet Bran could have fostered with kindly Tommen and made friends with all the Baratheons. With her own eyes she had watched how gallantly Joffrey treated Sansa. Her children might have ruled the Realm; from the deserts of Dorne to the ice of the Wall. They might have earned a place on the Small Council. Made matches with Great, Seven believing, Houses instead of … but now the bastard would gain the royal favor?

While it cut deep, at least _he_ would be gone from Winterfell. Gone from Robb, she immediately told herself. Nevertheless she still felt injured. With all the thoughts that leapt instantly through her mind, the only sound to cross her lips at the pronouncement was of her clearing her throat.

Ned climbed to his feet. "It is a great honor. Robert wishes Jon to squire for Ser Barristan."

More salt to rub in her wound. The bastard looked too much a Stark. She had tried to keep him hidden, but the King must have seen him; wanted some sad chance to relive his childhood in the Eyrie. "And then one of his Kingsguard?" she guessed bitterly. A spot was open now. "Does _he_ know yet," she spit. Was that why the bastard had been watching the courtyard?

"Catelyn," Ned implored, his eyes desperate as his hands sought hers.

"I wish him joy," she lied, stepping back; turning her head aside for the moment. She would not let him see the hate in her eyes. She peered instead down into the black and cold waters of the pool beside the heart tree.

"If Jon chooses to go, he will not have any easy path."

If?

She must have betrayed something. Ned quickly leaned forward and trapped her hands in his. His touch hurt. It never hurt. She instinctively tried to jerk her hands away, to step further away; he would not release her. At last raising her face, she saw the bone white and bloody red face of the ancient weirwood over Ned's shoulder mocking her.

"My path was hard too. It was hard on you as well. And I am more sorry than you can know. But I made a promise."

Gods no. _Mother_ protect me. Again she tried to yank away. To flee. Ned must have loved her greatly. She had always wanted to know. She had always feared knowing. Crimson rage soared within the small void where love of Ned had not completely filled her heart.

"I meant to keep this secret to the crypt if I must," he continued quietly, drawing Cat closer to him.

A low moan escaped her lips as he clasped her to his chest. His face pressed against the side of her head. She felt nauseous. She felt dizzy. The anger induced strength and purpose of earlier started flowing out of her quickly.

"But Robert knows. Gods know how he knows, but he does. And he claims no ill will towards Jon. He has changed more than I can understand. But Howland believes him. And … and I think believe him too," Ned whispered with quivering emotion.

Her mind tilted even more as the world began to turn upside down. Sounds and colors starting swirling about her. Why would Robert care about a bastard's mother? The words did not make any sense. Why would Ned care whether Robert cared? The colors made a frightening mélange of stark reds, greys, white, and black. What did Robert …?

"I promised Lya as she lay dying. Jon is of the blood of my House, but not of my seed. He is Rhaegar Targaryen's …"

The colors strove mightily against each other. Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed. Blackness won and the face of the weirwood ceased mocking her as the darkness of the alien North swallowed Catelyn Tully.

* * *

Such a cruel lie. The lack of trust. The resulting years of hatred. Madness. Targaryen madness, she thought, secretly watching the bastard while again he spied down from his perch on her sons, her true Stark sons, sparring with the royal Baratheons. What madness lurking in that dragon heart threatened her family?

Ned had foolishly tried to be gentle and understanding with her when her eyes had reopened. Fourteen years deliberate pain could never wash off in a moment, a day, a week, a month … a year? … a season? … a lifetime?

She had refused his offer of pity. She had denied his logical words of their safety. She was the daughter of a Great House. The lady of a Great House. The mother of a Great House. Winter is coming. She would be prepared and had told Ned so. He needn't bother about her.

Quietly, so that only the bed of pine needles beneath her feet and the heart tree face once again over Ned's shoulder could hear his whispers, he had turned aside from trying to assuage her pain to explain what would be done. Of what would be told and asked of this new and different half wolf - half dragon bastard.

Thankfully, the illicit fruit that had sprouted a rebellion and the fall of a corrupt dynasty would depart Winterfell. A king asked. And in asking also dangled the realm's greatest knight as bait. Youth cared little for the promised danger. Glory or death in the attempt. Essos was even further away than the Ruby Ford or King's Landing or Dorne had been for her.

Catelyn would not worry about that one. Her children and her House were enough concern for her. The glor … honor of serving the Iron Throne might be denied them, but at least they would remain safe. Marry. Make her a grandmother. Do their House proud.

Those things would likely be denied that one. Sitting there unknowing on a perch that his Uncle - she wanted to giggle, to shout with glee … Uncle! – would soon irrevocably change his life. " _Northern flowers wilt in the heat of the South._ " What of Snow?

Was this really the King's subtle revenge on Rhaegar? The Robert she dimly once knew. The Robert whom Ned spoke often of. The Demon of the Trident would have welcomed any new found Targaryen, and Targaryen attempt to reclaim their lineage with his warhammer, furiously and gladly; and, damn the consequences.

What wasn't she seeing from all that Ned had whispered to her? Viserys. An Aegon, true or false. A Dothraki warlord using his horde for a Targaryen princess. The Golden Company. Dorne seeking revenge. For a moment she imagined the bastard married to Arianne Martell, the heir of Dorne by their Rhoynish customs. No, even with their relaxed ways with natural born sons, there could be no wedding for him there. Viserys or Aegon, Blackfyre or not, that was surely the price of their cooperation in the rebellion.

Catelyn blinked. Snow was gone again. She hadn't noticed him disappear.

The courtyard was emptying too.

Where was Robb? Where was Bran? She could not spot them among the clump of Stark and Baratheon men moving off to slake their thirsts.

Well she would go pray for her children.

Her path to the Sept was no longer blocked.

And she cared not about the time it would take away from her duties as a Great Lady. Family was the first word of the Tully motto. Duty came second.

Did Septon Chayle know of a prayer from ' _The_ _Seven Pointed Star_ ' about the granting of forgiveness? She would make an attempt, but it would take long in coming.

* * *

Catelyn slipped the thin Tully blue silk sleeping gown over her head and smoothed it while watching herself in the large Myrish mirror that dominated one wall of her warm bedchamber. Satisfied, her hands next went up to flush out the long auburn hair she had recently finished brushing a hundred times. What next, she wondered, looking about the room for some amusement. It was only moderately late and she did not feel drowsy at all. Too much still churned undigested within her.

Dinner had been a mostly chilly affair, even with both the King and the Queen in fine spirits; flirting with each other shamelessly, almost like young lovers. The lust in the eyes of her husband's friend had been quite evident. While the Lannister woman's look had seemed a bit more calculating by Catelyn's estimation. Regardless, they were showing a far different marriage now than the few distant times she had previously experienced the royal pair together. Or garnered from the few tidbits her lord husband had inadvertently dropped of Robert's point of view on things.

Ned's eyes, on the other hand, had been distant and pained throughout the feast. She had avoided him the rest of the day until that point, but knew immediately by his demeanor when they first sat at the dais in the Great Hall that he had spoken to his ... the bastard. Distracted, the Lord of Winterfell's conversation had been polite but desultory and brief at best. Thankfully the King's good mood had kept the evening from turning into a social disaster.

Normally, Cat would have reached out to Ned at the earliest appropriate moment when he demonstrated his rare need for reassurance. That is unless the cause was Jon Snow; and the long shadow of the hidden woman whom her husband had loved so dear. But now the shadow casting shame across her was gone.

Yet a shadow lingered. Though not publicly, Jon Snow was not whom she and all of the North, all of Westeros, thought. Still, the secret must apparently remain for the King's plans. And for Cat? Lady Catelyn Tully. Lady Catelyn Stark? Mistress of Winterfell? The truth of Summer's light only revealed a different darkness. A different shade.

Like Jon Snow's pleasant absence from the lower tables at the feast, Catelyn's bedchambers was blessedly free of her Ned. They had separate bed chambers. Yet most nights, even without the cramping caused by so many nobles guests, lord husband spent it with his lady wife. Tonight, however, his presence could not have been borne. And he knew and respected it.

The warmth of the waters piped from Winterfell's hot springs through the walls of the Great Keep were in direct contrast to the sluggish ice now trickling through her marriage thanks to Lyanna Stark's betrayal of all duty and honor to her family. Why Ned? Why could you not have trusted me, she wondered for the hundredth time as she walked about her room blowing out candles.

He was still her lord husband, and she would obey him as a Great Lady should do her duty; even in the bedroom did he ask. But his presence would be unwelcome for some …

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Catelyn took her hand off the furs atop her bed that she was about to pull back. "What is it?" she called, startled by the unexpected disruption.

"My lady, Maester Luwin begs urgent audience," Tom's partially muffled voice came through the thick door.

"My lord husband is not within," she answered. Surely Tom would have told the maester that.

"The Maester knows, milady. He insists he must see you."

She trusted Maester Luwin with her life; with the lives of her children. If he must see her on an urgent matter, then she would see him. "A moment," she called and turned away from her bed to the armoire. A thick robe went on over the light silk. "Send him in."

The small grey man in his grey wool robe with its floppy arms entered quietly, and waited for the door to close behind him before he spoke. "My lady, pardon the interruption, but a message has been left for you," Maester Luwin said respectfully.

No scroll was evident in his hands, hidden most like in those voluminous sleeves that always seemed to hold minor wonders to amaze the children with. "Who is the raven from?" she asked politely; most message coming to the rookery would be for Ned; or the King, now that the royal court was here. In fact, the King had been oddly insistent that any arriving message not directed to House Stark must first go to him.

"It was not delivered by raven, nor by a rider that I know of. It arrived hidden inside a carved box I discovered on my workbench when I returned from this evening's feast, my lady."

Curious and curiouser. "Hidden?"

"I found it odd too, my lady. The box contained a Myrish far seeing lens, with no note of explanation. Examination eventually discovered a clever false bottom to the box and this." Now the maester withdrew a small, tightly bound scroll from within one wide sleeve. "Marked for you and sealed with a sigil you will recognize."

Her hand started to tremble slightly as she reached out for the parchment. She caught the words ' _Lady Catelyn Stark_ ' written elegantly on the outside below a blob of blue wax. She accepted the scroll and turned it so the remaining candle light reflected best on the seal. Cat's eyes widened in surprise; the moon and falcon of House Arryn.

Luwin bowed and began to leave.

"Stay," she commanded the small grey man. As a Great Lady she would not aloud admit the unknown fear now beginning to course through her, but she would not face it alone. There was grief in the message. She was sure of it.

She broke the seal and unraveled the missif. Words, nonsensical words, jumped off the page at her. For a second she was back at Riverrun, a giggling girl at play with Lysa and Petyr. Focus returned, and with it palpable dread. The words were now legible to her and only one other. A secret language. And they spelled out a horrible accusation.

"Where is my lord husband?" she choked out.


	22. Part 21 - A Bastard Squared

Even with Winterfell beginning to fill up with Northern Lords, Jon had been able to find places to hide the last two days; sadly leaving Ghost in the kennels. A bastard always knew how to remain quiet and unnoticed; more so when he was either being sought for punishment or after receiving its harsh dispensation. This punishment was the harshest one yet; more painful than he ever imagined, despite it having been given with love.

He had always known who he was. Now he felt lost. His father … his uncle … his father had said he was still and would always be a Stark by blood … a member of the pack … with a home in Winterfell. And his son in both his heart and for all the world to see; nothing would change.

But how could it not? No longer a bastard brother to Robb and Arya and Bran and Sansa and Rickon, but a bastard cousin; whether they knew it or not, he did. So he had avoided them. Avoided all of them. Not just father, Lady Catelyn, Lord Howland, and the King; the four who knew. The King!? Who's rage at the Targaryens was legendary.

How could he feel safe, so long as the King was in Winterfell? With his love of Aunt Lyanna … his mother? … so great, how could the Demon of the Trident overlook his dragon taint? Truly? Jon thought not, despite the reassuring words; and thus had hid himself. In the broken old tower. In the darkest recesses of the Godswood. In the deepest underground storage rooms, sneaking food and drink. In the crypt, staring at her tomb … imagining. Of course he had heard many stories through the years about her; a favorite of the servants old enough to have taught or coddled or played with her. Hodor's "Hoder" even sounded different when Lyanna was mentioned around the giant stable hand.

With ample hours of solitude, he had examined each remembered fragment in a new light; searching for a glimmer of himself in them. Nothing had penetrated this new abyss that had welled up within him. Then Lord Howland had stolen up silently on him in the dark of the crypt. The crannogman had kept a respectful distance as he shared a story Jon had never before heard about his aunt … his mother … his aunt. About the Tourney at Harrenhal and a young lady who went to the aid of her father's wrongly abused bannerman and of the mystery knight who returned honor to the young Howland.

" _She was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, wasn't she? Please tell me?_ " he had begged when his father's, his uncle's, friend ended the story with the disappearance of the anonymous defender and the resulting wrath of the old dead king.

" _Does it matter so much to you, Jon_?"

" _Yes_." He needed a tendril of heroic identity to take root in what was now rootless.

" _Then make your own truth. Lyanna would have wanted her son to do that_ ," the slight man advised him with a smile before receding back into the crypt's gloom; leaving Jon again to his own, very confused and hurt thoughts.

It was the sound of another tourney, of sorts, that had at last caught his attention enough to rouse him from his stupor and latest bolt-hole. The distinct sound of metal on metal that swords made and the cheers of a crowd; he found he could not resist.

First, he retrieved Ghost. The direwolf's exuberance at his release from the kennels had initially been difficult to contain, but Jon eventually brought him to heel. A few minutes play in the Godswood calming him down; then they had snuck around to the back of the armory and up to his bird's eye perch on the bridge over to the keep.

No longer did just the grey colors of House Stark, the mixed golden-crimson hues of the royal house, and the sporadic dull silver blue of the Weasels fill out the practice yard under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye. The scarlet and silver mailed fists of House Glover, the dark green mermen of Manderly, the brown and black antlers of House Hornwood, the sable axes of Cerwyn, the pine green sentinels from Torrhen's Square, and a score plus of minor Northern house colors crowded around the current duo sparring: Theon and Benfred Tallhart.

Only Robb and the men of Winterfell were cheering on the Kraken cunt. That made Jon smile as Ghost sank down on to his haunches; a single glimpse over the railing satisfying his curiosity at the silliness of men. The North may not have been struck by the Greyjoys Rebellion, but they remembered fighting the Ironborn at father's … at Winterfell's command.

The bout ended. "Honors go to young Theon," Ser Rodrik announced. Theon preened in victory, but made a passable show at congratulating the almost equally insufferable Benfred for his efforts.

Soon enough Daryn Hornwood, an alright enough sort, went up against Robb. Jon was a better sword than his broth … his cousin, and watched eagerly; trying to take note of what he would do differently than his ...

Daryn was a year or two older than Robb and Jon, and decent with a blade, but seemed only able to score one hit past Robb's shield to every two or three from his …

Ghost's mouth tugged on his sleeve. Absent mindedly he shook his arm free and patted the direwolf's head, not taking his eyes off the match. 'Ah, I would have stepped in and pushed down Hornwood with my shield,' he thought, judging an advantage Robb had failed to notice or take advantage of.

Ghost growled low.

That got Jon's attention. His head snapped back to the bridge and spied a white cloak step out the door to from the armory. Not good, he immediately decided; shifting his weight off the bridge rail in preparation to bolt the other direction towards the keep.

"Damn," he swore hotly.

A large, no - very large, figure was already walking his way from the keep; seeming to fill the entire width of the bridge. Jon looked out the window, calculating.

"Jump if you feel you must. You're young and spry, probably won't break anything," the equally large voice boomed with amusement down the enclosed causeway.

Jon swallowed and started to chew his lip in doubt while he stayed rooted in place.

"Smart lad," The oncoming fat King commented; then, upon coming close, he next cleared his throat a tad nervously. "The beast won't bite, will he?"

The bastard looked down at his direwolf. Ghost was … attentive … curious, but not showing any signs of hostility … at the moment. That gave Jon a drop of confidence. "Not unless I tell him too, your Grace," he said more boldly than he felt.

"Well let's not give you cause to tell him then, shall we?" the King declared with a bit of forced joviality.

Jon could now spy the perspiration on the fat man's face and brow. Not the first time he had noticed how much the King sweated. "Would you care to pet him, your Grace?" he prodded with an innocent voice that covered a spiteful glee. Men were fearful of direwolves. They were beasts of legend; even only half grown ones.

That brought the King up short. He stopped, looked at his hands and wiggled his fingers. Then he laughed, saying oddly, "My fingers aren't bloody tough enough meat to survive that one's teeth. Perhaps another time, Jon."

And then the fat, sweaty man stared at him up and down. 'Do I resemble Lyanna?' Jon wondered yet again. Her crypt statue had shown the Stark look. But that was only carved stone, not actual breathing flesh and blood and bone.

The King stared an uncomfortably long time.

Longer than Jon's heart could bear. "Do I look much of Rhaegar?" he challenged bitterly. Beside him he felt Ghost stiffen.

His father's … his uncle's friend, the Lord of the Seven Kingdom's and legendary dragon hater, let out a weary sigh. "No, more's the pity," he added ruefully.

The remark could not have confused Jon more.

"Has Ned told you anything of my interest in you?"

He shook his head no while saying, "Just that you somehow knew who … who my true parents were."

The King immediately frowned and also began vigorously jerking his head back and forth with pursed lips in short nos. "Rhaegar may have sired you, Jon; willingly or through rape. And Lyanna birthed you, but never, ever, belief anything other than that Ned Stark is your parent," he pronounced with passionate, angry certainty. "He raised you; and well I hear. He called you his son. He treated you as his son. No man true or natural or otherwise born and raised could hope for a better father. No one."

The vehemence stunned him. As did the suggestion that … she … might have gone willingly … to _him_? And the truth of those words about his … father … they were true … yet not readily …

"Worse for you how Lady Catelyn's treated you; though I understand her viewpoint. I have more bastards than I can shake a stick at and if I ever brought a one to the Red Keep, Cersei would be sure to see them meet a permanent accident." A sad, wry chuckle slipped out of the King's mouth.

"Not that I'd be much of a father to them," he continued. "I've been shit to my three true born ones. Luckily, Myrcella and Tommen seem to be turning out alright. Unfortunately Joffrey's a little shit," the King said with evident displeasure.

Was this what Kings were supposed to say to bastards? Jon's mind reeled at all the unexpected revelations. Maybe that was why he couldn't stifle a giggle at the King's insult to his own heir.

"What?!" the fat man near roared, then notched his voice back lest they draw attention from the courtyard below. "You don't think its true? I've seen you at meal down with the squires in the Great Hall; eyes watching everything. You've probably been up here every morning watching Joffrey spar. Tell me I'm wrong?" he challenged.

"No … no, your Grace," Jon half choked and half tittered out.

A big hand slapped him hard on the shoulder. Fat, but still strong. "So we've at least that in common."

He hadn't noticed, but at some point Ghost had lain back down; a sign the direwolf wasn't concerned in the least about the King who was supposed to hate him.

"And I'd like to build on that. I heard you wanted to join your Uncle Benjen in the Night's Watch." The King paused, clearly waiting for a response.

"Yes, your Grace. I do."

The King nodded. "An honorable calling, the Night's Watch; though I warn you their ranks are filled far more with rapists and murderers than men of Benjen's noble ilk."

That sparked a note of defiance in Jon, but being a bastard he knew when to keep his mouth closed.

"You'd do well there, lad. I'm certain. But I've another offer for you. Oh," the giant stag said and then paused. "Looks like it's my little shit's time to swing a tourney blade. Has he been complaining about the lack of live steel?"

Jon looked out the window. Robb was walking towards the water buckets with an arm over Daryn Hornwood's shoulder. Both were getting clapped on the back by the onlookers. Robb was ignoring them in the main, clearly focusing on a conversation with Hornwood. While Prince Joffrey was taking his place in the open middle of the crowd; swinging his sword arm to loosen it up.

"Who's that he's facing?" the father asked of his son.

"Cley Cerwyn."

"Any good?"

"Passable," Jon announced, not wishing to besmirch the likeable teen's modest abilities. Of all the young nobles gathering in Wintefell, Cley was the one he and Robb knew best thanks to Castle Cerwyn's proximity. And Lord Cerwyn's heir, while never particularly seeking his friendship, had also never teased him his natural born status.

"Ah, a pity. Joff needs a sound thumping to drive an ounce of sense into his pea sized brain. I'll have to quietly ask Ser Rodrik to throw a ringer against him tomorrow. Maybe even let them go at it with that live steel he foolishly yearns for."

The King's cuts and over familiarity made Jon uneasy. He couldn't see the point of it. Father would never act this way in front of another lord's son; trueborn, let alone natural.

They watched the new matched pair go at it to first blow; landed solidly and verbosely by Joffrey. The prince might not be quite as good as Robb or himself, but he was more than Cley could handle. Only members from the royal household and a few lickspittles cheered the too easy point.

"Asshole," the King muttered. Another tired sigh. "Now where were we? Oh, right. Another offer. Which isn't to say you couldn't join the Night's Watch in the future should you accept, you understand, Jon?"

"What is it you would have me do, your Grace?" he asked politely, trying not to let the clangs of the action below distract him.

The King looked up and down the covered bridge; only a white cloak showing at either end. "It is time the Iron Throne made peace with the Targaryens in exile, Jon," he replied in a purposefully very soft voice for once.

Targaryens? His other blood had been another subject Jon had culled his memory for all knowledge of during his days long self-exile. "In Essos?" he hazarded.

The giant stag nodded. "Daenerys Targaryen has married a Dothraki warlord with a promise to her brother Viserys that one day this Khal Drogo will lead his horde over to Westeros. Nonsense like this must stop. I wish to send an embassy to them. To negotiate a peaceful, honorable, honor-laden return, or at least permanent truce."

"And you wish me, with my Targaryen blood, to be a part of this?" He immediately guessed, seeing the cleverness of sending a dragonspawn friendly to the Iron Throne; even a young bastard one. The idea was both scary and intriguing; frightening and slightly pride filling. The new abyss inside him suddenly seemed a little less vast than before. And then guilt sunk its sharp teeth in him for feeling that; a rejection of the pack.

"I do."

"But I don't even … oh … how would they … how could they believe I was one of … them?"

"We'll have to work on that. There is another Targaryen, a very wise and old Targaryen, I hope to send along too. Your …" and the King started ticking off fingers and mumbling names "Aerys, Jaehrys, Egg … great, great uncle I believe. Aemon, the Maester at Castle Black."

The dragon must be ancient. How could someone like that survive a trip to Essos? But what might he learn from this Aemon? No. This was not for him. Even if he truly wasn't the tainted fruit of vile rape. He could still meet this Aemon if he joined the Night's Watch. Well, that is if he too didn't agree to the King's request. He'd have to ask Benjen about …

"I can tell you're not thrilled by my royal request," the King rumbled, drawing Jon out of his thoughts.

Robert Baratheon was again staring hard at him; sternly. Jon swallowed hard. Then the King's face instantly changed to a wide smile and he laughed that sad wry laugh again. "Can't say as I blame you. All rather sudden this, what? World turned upside down. Don't know if you're being punched in the head or the belly or both, and all the time your heart is breaking because everything and everyone you thought you knew are torn away." The big man raised a closed hand, blew on it, and said "poof." Large bejeweled fingers fluttered slowly open, revealing an empty space.

Jon simply nodded, mouth agape. That was exactly … was that a tear gathering in the corner of the King's eye?

Robert Baratheon, Protector of the Realm and a knight still very much in love with the memories of his Lady Lyanna, cleared his throat. "Thought so. This helps some. But I warn you it's an abominable trap if you let it help you toooo much." The other hand passed something shiny and sparkling over towards him in its huge grasp.

The bastard accepted the beautiful gold and pearl decorated flask. One did not turn down an opportunity to drink with Robert Baratheon, if you knew what was good for you. He uncapped the top and threw back a mouthful. "WHaahaaaaaa," he immediately exhaled; almost spitting the strong, throat searing, strange flavored alcohol back out.

"Sorry," the King chuckled, reaching over to snatch the small bottle back lest Jon drop the stuff. "Volantene liquor. Found it in the baggage of my goodbrother, Tyrion, that didn't make it back to King's Landing with him. Strong stuff," he shrugged apologetically. "I'd have offered you wine if I had it, but I ordered my squires to stop giving me a wineskin to carry around during the day. This though," and he tipped up the flask to his tongue dabbed lips.

The big man's chubby cheeked face rippled in both agony and ecstasy while gulping down the vile foreign brew. A large sigh from a big man. "Talking's thirsty work. And I'm not done trying to convince you to come to King's Landing with me so you can be part of my little embassy to Daenerys Targaryen and her pets."

"Your Grace, I'm …"

"Shhh, shhh, shhh, you know nothing, Jon Snow." And then King's shoulders heaved briefly with what sounded like a repressed laugh. "I'm not done bribing you. So let a King say his peace, or you might hurt my royal feelings," he continued with amusement.

"Yes, of course, your Grace," Jon answered solemnly; all the while wondering whether this King was as mad as any of the Targaryens. Did that make him mad, or prone to madness, too?

"Ser Barristan the Bold, greatest and most honorable of Westeros' knights, will head my embassy to Essos. What's more, the poor overworked man is currently without a squire. Do you think you might be up for the job? Hhhmmmmnnnn?"

Jon gulped. Barristan the Bold? THE Barristan the Bold? To squire for him? The abyss was all but forgotten. A huge toothy smile spread across his mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes," the fat King said smugly. Then kindly and seriously, "But sleep on it, lad. Mull it over. This is just a trap of a different kind, more honey than teeth. And I want you willingly, without resentment a month or a year from now. Understand?"

He nodded; he sort of thought he did. Bran would be so jealous! "Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace."

"If you do say yes, everyone is to understand that I am doing a favor for Ned and Lady Catelyn by taking you out of Winterfell. Undoubtedly I will spew some nonsense of how your Stark looks take me back to my days in the Eyrie with your father. Only Ser Barristan and Maester Aemon will know the Targaryen truth of your blood. Any embassy likely won't leave until the new year. So you'd have a good long time to get started as Ser Barristan's …"

HAAAAROOOOOOOOOOO!

"Oh who the bloody hell now is showing up!" Robert Baratheon angrily snapped at Winterfell's horn. "Better not be some pissant little lordling like this morning. No one sent a runner from Winter Town saying that it was just old Lord Crotchrot. So out I went with Ned to give Lord Bumfuck from West BeJesus a royal greeting. Waste of my godsdamned time!" the royal rant concluded.

Both bastard and King stared out the window frame to see which lord was arriving for the Council the King had called to start in two days.

The twenty men on horseback who came in through the South Gate sported no banner to proclaim their House. But Jon did not need one to identify who it must be. They all sported a pink badge field on their tunics and jerkin breasts. His eyes did not need to be good enough to spy the red flayed man within the pink to know that these men had come from the Dreadfort.

Jon snuck a look at the King, whose face showed no evident sign of recognition. "T'is Lord Bolton, your Grace," he offered politely.

The King's eyes suddenly squinted dangerously and a moment later his tongue edged out to lick now pursed lips. Ghost sat up and gave a low growl. "There's another bastard I hope to talk with," his father's friend muttered in a tone Jon had expected at the start of their surprisingly amiable meeting. As he continued to watch the King, the fat man's gaze never shifted, even when lifted the ornate flask of a trap up to an unhappy, purpling face.

Jon shivered, feeling very glad that he was in his bastard boots and not in pale faced Lord Roose's boots. Because whatever it was the quiet voiced man had done, the Stag was angry about it.


	23. Part 22 - The Council of Elrond

I waited for Cersei to catch her breath and her muscles to start to unclench; listening diligently, watching every little tremor that her own blindfolded eyes could not see. She couldn't possibly be faking, could she? Was that why the bitch's reaction mattered so much to me? I needed confirmation, yet again, she was ...

Or was I simply as turned on by this game as I wanted to believe Cersei was? That I needed confirmation, yet again, that I could reduce such a gorgeous creature to this. But still, in my soul remained …

One last shudder escaped her. "Robert?" she groaned lightly … slowly … wantingly … wantonly.

"Shhhhhhh," I hissed slowly. "Only No One." And my hand slowly caressed down her body.

She twitched in delight.

"A woman need only ask and man would do the rest," I teased with a husky, deep voice; reluctantly removing said hand and lifting my body up from the bed.

"Don't go," she whispered.

"Is a woman asking?"

"Don't go," she pouted.

Damned bitch. Cock tease. "No One tells a woman, until to…to…tomorrow," I warbled lustily, losing the indifferent Faceless Man voice of sexual mystery I used for my dominant bed time character. Fuck it! She had to have heard the quiver of my desire. I beat a hasty retreat out of her chamber, defeated.

* * *

"Lancel," I greeted my number one squire on the other side of the door with fake joviality. "Had a good day, did you?" I asked, throwing a large arm companionably over his shoulder. The pretty looking yellow haired Lannister shit loathed me. Good.

A Winterfell page with a lantern slipped in ahead of us and Ser Meryn came in behind as Cersei's ladies-in-waiting swished past around my small party to go do whatever they did for her after one of our _interludes_. No doubt all the castle's servants were aware of what passed many a night between King and Queen, it wasn't exactly a quiet game. But did the naughty gossip makes its way purposefully or inadvertently to noble, polite Ned and missionary position only Catelyn? An interesting, if pointless, question I nevertheless enjoyed pondering to no end. It's amusing to be the King.

"Fine, your Grace," he replied neutrally, while the tightening of his muscles under my arm belied the answer.

"And did Cersei enjoy the ride out to those waterfalls? I fear we did not talk of it at the feast nor in her chambers," I prodded the stand in gently; my attention to Cersei and all its resulting noise had obviously produced little in the way of conversation – well, eventually.

Lancel cleared his throat. "Her Grace did, your Grace."

"Good. Good," I answered, slapping him on the shoulder; having refused to release him as we made the short trip down the hall towards my own set of rooms. "Appreciate all you have done, keeping your cousin company so much. Cersei was loath to lose Ser Jaime's company, but you've stepped in admirably. Fetching presents for her. Arranging singers. Taking her on amusing trips outside the castle. All the little things to keep her happy. Cersei has only fine, fine things to say of you."

"Really? … your Grace?" the teenager asked eagerly; puppy dog-ish.

Excellent. I nodded my head vigorously. "Oh yes. She pesters me about when I will knight you. Soon, boy. Soon," I added conspiratorially, with a quick clutch in tight, to show my own "agreement" to the handsome shit; then another sound clap. "She wants to witness your first tourney victory. Hopes you will crown her your Queen of Love and Beauty," I added with typical Robert mirth and scorn in my voice at the idea that poor Lumpy could ever achieve such.

I felt him stiffen more under my arm; pleasure at her supposed words or anger at my ridicule? Pleasure it seemed, he couldn't hide the grin on his face. 'Oh the lies I tell,' I chortled to myself. Like he would dare ask the bitch if what I said she said was true. Ha! But we want you a bold one, don't we?

"It would be an honor," he whispered, forgetting to add the habitual "your Grace" part.

I gladly let it slide "Well, here we are," I said, announcing the obvious as we came to my door. I relinquished my hold on the substitute. "I'll take it from here, tonight. Sleep well, Lancel."

He remembered his place. "Are you certain, your Grace?"

"Of course I am," I growled. "Things will be well in hand," I informed him. "Not the first time I've done it." No, far from it the way my groin still ached.

"As you command, your Grace," Lumpy conceded; attempting to show a reluctance he didn't feel.

"Sweet dreams," I said in dismissal and went through the door that another page was holding open for me. They would be sweet, I didn't doubt; for both Lancel and myself. I guessed the teen would, like myself, soon also have things well in hand.

* * *

"Robert," Cersei greeted me grumpily as I entered the private dining room set up for the royal family in Winterfell. Not every meal need be taken in the Great Hall; especially today – grand doings.

"Cersei," I replied with a temporary induced cheerfulness that for the moment hid the nerves making me want to both drink and pee. Even after a month of sexual farce playing, Cersei still played the unavailable, indignant role the morning after every non-tryst. Not today, ya stupid biotch! Should have thought of it last night when you let me in your bed chamber.

The morning, and likely the afternoon, was set for the Council of Elrond. All the great lords of the North gathered together and I had told her, as my Queen, she absolutely must sit by my side and give me counsel when I required it. No way the egomaniacal Cersei was going to pass that up; even if was just for a bunch of smelly, know-nothing, tree fucking barbarians.

"Hmmm, what smells good?" I asked. "What's that on your plate, Tommen?" In fact the smells simply made me want to puke. Too nervous for proper food. Liquid bread?

"Fried trout, father," the littlest bastard answered with a cheery smile.

"Don't tell Lady Catelyn you're eating a relative," I japed.

Tommen giggled. Myrcella smiled. Joffrey rolled his eyes. And Cersei glared unhappily. All typical.

"I'll have some pork," I declared, sitting down at the free, empty chair in the middle of the table. Bacon! One pleasure not to be denied in fucking Westeros. Not that I really wanted any at the moment, too greasy. A chop would suit; or a part of a chop, whatever I could choke past my worries. "Lancel, are there any houses I am in dire of harming by having some pig?"

Both Tyrek and Lumpy were already at the table, as family. Olyvar had had the responsibility of overseeing my morning dressing. Even when he didn't, I usually had him avoid my loving family's intimate little back stabbings. "Uhm, the Crakehalls, your Grace?" he replied.

"Rightly so." I sure as hell couldn't think of any other pig fetish houses. Hmmmn, maybe a quick little kniving of my own. "Didn't Jaime squire for Lord Crakehall? Or was that Lord Crakehall's father? Eh, Cersei?" I called out to her.

"Yes," came very slowly out of her mouth. Stannis would have been impressed at the teeth grinding involved in getting such a short sound out of that beautiful, angry mouth.

"A young Uncle Jaime must have been an impressive sight, don't you think, Myrcella?" I asked turning my attention and growing smirk away from the bitch. I mimicked some sword thrusts and jutted out my chin in a "heroic" pose.

"Oh yes, father," she laughed. Then on a more somber note, "I miss Uncle."

I stifled a laugh. "Me too, sweetling. Me too," I declared solemnly, shaking my head sadly in agreement. Just don't spoil the moment by mentioning your other Uncle. Praise the Seven, the Old Gods, and the Alien Space Bats; she didn't.

Of Jaime, there had only been one attempt to sneak a message from too loving brother to too loving sister, cleverly via Castle Cerwyn. The intercepted slip of parchment had been handed to me still sealed and been burned after reading. That I was still alive was all the evidence I needed that the Kingslayer's removal from the Kingsguard was still unknown to _her_.

Still, the more I pondered how long that ball could be juggled, the more anxiety I felt climb on top of my already raw nerves. I thought I knew what the eunuch felt like before he got shorter by a head, 'So many balls.' As I picked up my first, thick beer, I commanded, "Get me another one of these to go with the pork." Swill to calm this squealing pig.

* * *

The prickly, independent minded, blood thirsty lords of the North were gathered in Winterfell's Great Hall. Seating carefully arranged based on the First Men's own incomprehensible hierarchy; periodically interrupted by early arriving (read sober) lords moving "up" at the expense of late arriving ones (read drunk or big dicks or usually both). Then, with minor fisticuff aside and things finally seeming in order …

HAAAAROOOOOOOOOOO!

"What the fuck now!" I burst out, unable to contain myself. "I'll crush whatever little pissant lord's head this is!" I raged. HULK SMASH. Followed by a nip from my Volantene flask. So nasty.

Ned ignored me and calmly walked to the gate of the inner wall setting the Great Keep and the Great Hall off of Winterfell's main courtyard. Robb dutifully followed his father. Catelyn, staying behind as hostess to the royal family, looked perplexed; probably trying to figure out who the late arrival on the guest list was. Cersei was just irritated; a continuation of her mood since breakfast. And Joffrey looked bored; not exactly happy at the command that if every lord of the North was told to bring along his heir for the Council, then the heir to the Iron Throne damned well needed to attend as well.

Ned strolled back leisurely.

"So who is the little shite!" I snarled when he came close enough for me to spit nails at. Elrond didn't have to wait at his own god damned Council.

That icy mask barely moved. "Lord Jon Umber."

I looked at Ned. Ned looked at me.

"Little. BWAHAHAHAhahahahahaha!" I laughed, wanting to roll around on the mud and stone floor of the yard to further release the tension.

The Lord of Winterfell's face thawed to crack a grin.

"But … Lord Umber was not invited, as you requested, your Grace," Catelyn apologized, looking confused.

No King of the North like outbursts from the loud, giant fuck had been my road of good intention for the loyal Stark loving son of a bitch.

"He must have heard somehow. No stopping Jon when he gets an idea in his head," Ned explained with a wee twinkle that qualified as still amused for him.

We waited. Word went into the Great Hall. The sound of much groaning, complaining, and shuffling of seats greeted the news.

At last the Greatjon, dirty as sin and followed by his almost equally great sized son, entered the yard. "Ned!" he boomed in a voice that would do the true Robert proud. "How could ya not invite me," he protested with a tone that would do a petulant, aggrieved child proud.

Nope, Elrond never had to suffer this. Though, did Boromir showing up late to Rivendell count?

"Your Grace," he bellowed next and stomped right at me looking for all the world like he wanted to give me a hug.

Jesus. He did. The Greatjon smelled worse than he looked.

* * *

"Lords of the North, the Iron Throne thanks you for your faithfulness. Many years has it been since a King visited the North. Too long. But fear not, I do not come to meddle. First, if I did, you'd tell me to shove my busy nose up my fat back side. Isn't that right, Greatjon?" I hollered. Always open with a joke.

"Aye," the huge man yelled back happily. "We bloody well would, your Grace." His response drew much nodding in agreement by amused Northmen heads in the hall.

"And second, the North already has the leader it needs in Lord Eddard." That bit elicited a round of assenting harrumphs from the audience.

As it quieted sufficiently, I continued, having taken a chance during the clamor to glance down at my brief notes. No PowerPoint presentation to fall back on here. Nor a Gloin or a Legolas or a Boromir to set the stage before Elrond reveals Frodo to hold the One Ring. Nope, just me. And I wasn't once going to even mention the ring, er, rather the Others.

"In fact, the prime reason for my coming here, other than to enjoy the hospitality of Winterfell's many beer kegs and the sight of so many of your fine Northern lasses …" I didn't need to bother to look to know how generously Cersei was taking that, but sometimes Robert had to be Robert to remain believable, "… has very much to do with the serious words of Ned's House … WINTER IS COMING!" I thundered.

 _That_ got their notice.

"Aye, it is coming. Do not let this long summer, longer than any man alive can remember, fool you. Do not get lax in your preparation. Do not get greedy and trade away your surplus for pretty trinkets. Do not squabble and fight with your neighbors. Winter may not come this year or the next, but it is coming. Soon! And when it comes, it will last years!" I roared in my scariest voice. "Years! This long summer will have its revenge on those who do not do their duty to their House. To their smallfolk. To their fellow lords."

Angry shouts, accusations assailed me.

"In the King's name, SILENCE!" I boomed, coming out of my chair. The sound of Robert's battle voice, or so I imagined, echoed violently off the granite walls. Fuck, it worked. The room silenced in an instant. HULK SMASH! I'd never physically dominated a room before. The suckups and kiss asses on the journey so far didn't count; they were reacting to who wore the crown and Robert's reputation. This was different. This was respect from those who only gave it grudgingly and aside from Ned couldn't give a shit about me. This was sweeter than the finest wine.

I slowly walked up and down the raised dais, their eyes intent in tracking my every step. "I am not here to tell you how to prepare," I at last continued, using a Roose-like quiet voice; forcing them to strain to hear me. To want to hear me. "I am just some foolish Southern Knight from below the Neck who drunk on Summerwine and revenge won a throne with the help of my friends." Time to crank it to eleven. I lifted two thick arms and in a loud voice shouted, "My Northmen friends! The First Men!"

Cheers.

Damn, in the moment, I wished there was Summerwine to share all around. For I'm a jolly good fellow!

"Robert Baratheon remembers his friends. Their worries are his worries. Their Winter is his Winter. When the snows pile up taller than ten men. When stomachs grow tight and the children cry in hunger, the North should know that their friend Robert is doing all in his might from the Iron Throne to help you and your Houses!"

More cheers. Louder cheers.

"While I am a fool, Robert Baratheon knows he can't wait until the first snows fall to get ready to help his friends. The work must start now. What help would you have of your King? Speak," I commanded.

And after a moment or three of stunned silence, they obeyed. Or perhaps their ornery Northern nature just took over.

Suggestions started in dribs and then became an avalanche. Some stupid. Most too local to the particular lord's concerns. But a few, even to my untrained mind, made eminent sense. Not that the Iron Throne had the coin to pull most of it off … while preparing for a war against demonic ice zombies. But there were sources to be tapped, if one looked where the books hinted or suggested.

As I regained my seat to let the sweat dry on my plump body and the butterflies settle, I mostly let Ned take over. Like a trained monkey, I nodded appropriately when the Lord of Winterfell seemed receptive to an idea or scowled when he evidently disliked something. On occasion he looked at me for direction; bloody impossible to truly read what was going on under that frozen face of his. I usually answered with IT middle management platitudes; I'd sat in a thousand meetings pretending to understanding things that went over my head: "That's worth investigating more later." "What are the benefits versus the costs of that?" "Let's get some names for a small group to focus on that." "I will need to check with the Small Council on whether those resources are matured enough to distribute."

There probably wasn't all the much the rest of Westeros could actually do to help the North even in just a pure Snow Apocalypse. This situation was exponentially worse. Ships could probably make it to White Harbor, Oldcastle, Ramsgate, Widows Watch, and Deepwood Motte. Maybe to Karhold and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea too; carrying grain, weapons, armor, dragonstone, and wildfire. But what then? Its fucking Winter. In Westeros! As Sbiper's military historian inserted into Bomber Harris at AltHistory knew, it was all about the transport network. But instead of destroying one to wreck the Nazi economy, The North needed one to be put in place so that supplied forces could concentrate against Lions, Wights, and Others; oh my!

The Northern Lords had to want to have help from the South come to them. I had no tame White Walker or wiggling wight arm to convince them with; their own fears of a long Winter would have to do. And they had to show me how these promised free goodies from the Iron Throne could reach them in their isolated redoubts. And thus, hopefully, each other; otherwise each holdfast under siege would simply become a cemetery. No, a recruiting center; Uncle Other wants you for his army of the Undead! That was the real problem that needed solving.

Ideas of gunpowder, crop rotation, mass greenhouses, canals uber alles, sanitation, literacy, the scientific method; they would have to wait. Sure, baby steps could be made. Everyone invents the printing press in these stories, so why not me? But two years, that was likely all Westeros had before the frozen zombie shitnado hit and overwhelmed the medieval underpowered fan. Industrial revolution? Fuck Sean Bean and his Yorkshire upbringing. Fuck every SI written by anyone who knew actual technical things and didn't rely on Wikipedia.

Who was talking? Was that Lady Barbrey's tame Stout? Pay attention. I licked my lips and refocused.

From my periodic surreptitious glances up and down the dais, Catelyn and Robb were following along with interest; though Grey Wind could have given a shit - nothing like a direwolf on stage to add prestige to a production. Joffrey's eyes seemed permanently a goggle at the idea of a King asking how to help instead of taking what he wanted. Off to the far sides of the dais, scribes were busily scribbling down the bad ideas with the good. Behind me, who knew what the White Cloaks and squires were thinking? Even I knew enough not to be so rude as to turn away from the Lords to satisfy my curiosity. And Cersei?

My furtive looks in her direction were anything but unobserved by those calculating, selfish, lovely green Lannister eyes. Cersei gave me the curt, slightly pursed "Fool" smile I was so familiar with any time she spied my gaze slip near or past her. Unfortunately, the Honesty and Advice Pact with her, my own personal Axis of Evil, was still in effect. Lack of PowerPoint bullets aside, I had already weeks ago and just last night again reviewed with her the topics I intended to cover in the Council. She had again seemed as incredulous as Joffrey.

" _You expect Casterly Rock to pay for this folly_? _Don't you Robert?_ "

" _Some. Not much. It's not like I am expecting Tywin to pay for a canal across the top of the Neck._ "

" _You've more interest in the gold of my father's purse than the velvet in mine!_ "

" _Christ!_ This again? _If you stopped using it to play your games, I'd show my damned interest. A man has his pride._ "

" _You're the one who started playing games!_ "

" _Bitch, I just changed the rules you wrote!_ "

" _Then just take me. It never stopped you before, Robert; as if you ever cared!_ "

" _Well I care now, woman! Would it kill you to care? Just a little bit? For me?_ "

" _Go back to your whores and sluts!_ "

" _loud, deep breath No One wants this woman as his willing slut._ "

" _No, Robert. Not tonight. Put that silk away!_ "

She really shouldn't have asked me into her room last night to talk. During the Council of Elrond, did Aragorn dream of boning Arwen? How much foreplay did they do over the decades Elrond refused to allow them to marry? What did he do about his blueballs? Sigh. Too bad I'd never have the chance to write the follow up to my X-Wo(Men) and Lord of the Rings crossover. Being Robert wasn't so bad, but damn what I'd do for some kick ass mutant powers here in Westeros. That Wolverine cross-over would never get finished either, not that I'd worked on it in years. It had had some good points: " _I'm the Mountain, bitch_!" I sighed. Apparently loudly.

"Your Grace?"

Oh shit. Focus.

"You wished to say something?"

"While Lord … uh … Marsh has raised a vital point, which I did not intend to interrupt. We have been speaking a long while." I licked my lips. I was thirsty. Always thirsty. "Perhaps a small break may be in order soon, after Lord Marsh concludes, of course." And I offered a benevolent smile to show my sincerity. "And when we return, there are other … concerns I wish to bring up with my faithful lords of the North."

"Bored fool," she quietly hissed with loud sarcasm from the direct left of me.

* * *

Catelyn had been prepared and the serving wenches were out quickly with trays of mugs full of drink for those lords who didn't have to visit the jakes first. Not me, nothing wrong with Robert's bladder. No more waking up in the middle of the night to piss for this not-fifty year old body. I'd enjoy that small pleasure while it lasted; assuming I wasn't killed before my prostate again became an issue.

Sporting a giant mug, I hopped off the dais and schmoozed. Everyone wanted a piece of me. I smiled and japed and laughed and nodded and moved among the Lords of the North; pressing the flesh as they say in the politics biz. I recognized and greeted by name those I was most interested in. Other than Roose, and of course the Greatjon, Cersei and I had already spent varying degrees of time meeting with all the significant and middle level lords: Lord Wyman and fils, Lady Barbery and Stoat, the Brothers Glover, Lord Halys and heir, etc.

"Lord Roose, how are you man!" I declared, slapping the slender, pale lord vigorously on the shoulder. I got a perverse pleasure out of bullying people that way with my Robert strength. I'm sure Elrond never had to bully any of his allies. HULK SMASH!

"Your Grace," he answered as stereotypically softly as the books described.

I clutched my lips together to keep from laughing at the reality of his classic mannerism. Then, controlled, I must tweak the Leech. "Ser Barristan sends his regards."

Milk white eyes twitched slightly. "He does, your Grace?"

"Oh, yes. Not in any good way too, a slight on your honor and your lack of mercy, I assure you?"

"Indeed?"

"He still remembers your wanting to execute him after the Trident."

"That is the standard punishment for traitors," the almost whispered response came back; all that I could hope for.

"For traitors and worse, I agree." I made an exaggerated glance to the left and to the right of him, before returning a hopefully hardened glare back at the scary bastard. "I saw you brought no heir to the meeting Lord Roose. Won't do, won't do at all," I tssked. Then slap! Another hard one on his shoulder. "We'll talk of it on the morrow," and my hand gave a soft push off to indicate that this audience was over.

It's good to be the King. And I'd hardly been nervous at all during the little confrontation.

"Lord Medger!" I shouted merrily, moving past the Leech. "Any thoughts yet on that proposition I made you?"

As Cerwyn scurried over, I took a long pull at my ale while trying to gauge how many eyes and ears were homing in on what would be said next.

* * *

I grabbed a second mug on my way back to the dais to nurse my first betrothal defeat. I was certain that suck up Medger would cave. Cersei gave me an acknowledging scowling; no joy for her that another House would be stuck with a Frey. Oh well, at least the Lord of Cerwyn promised to have Jonelle married by the end of the year; " _Even to the pig boy, if I must, your Grace. You have my word._ " Earnest prat. I'd have to look for another situation for Perwyn.

"Settle down! Settle down! There is something new to tell you of! So shut your damn mouths!"

They quieted to a dull roar. Good enough.

"This next bit will be of most interest to those of you lords with lands to the West, near the Sunset Sea. But the rest of you lot should pay attention to, as it might mean war!"

That got their attention. And I heard a few shouts to get on with it.

"That reaving Kraken cock Balon Greyjoy is trying to rebuild the Iron Fleet of his all secret like, but the Iron Throne has caught wind of it."

"Should have killed him!"

"Fool."

"Doesn't Lord Eddard hold his son hostage?"

"Why should we care?"

"Are you going to call on us to fight again?"

"Why should the North care?"

"All good points, my friends. I've already sent a royal emissary to Pyke to let the old fool know we've tipped to his nasty, stupid plan. And he better damn well cut it out if he knows what's good for. But as Balon is about as smart as fish guts and sheep shit, it would be just like him to step on his own cock and cause a problem for the rest of us."

"Will we fight?"

I gestured for Ned to get up and give the answer.

"His Grace has already informed the Arbor, Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and Seagard of his concerns. And Lord Stannis will prepare the Royal Fleet," Ned began.

'But it won't be the Mannis leading it. Wonder who he will suggest, once he's Hand, to be the new Master of Ships? Too much to wish for Davos, I'm sure,' I thought.

"They will lead any assault on the Iron Isles. The North is ordered to defend our lands in case Greyjoy in his madness wishes to take revenge on House Stark for our taking of his son, Theon."

"And would you kill the hostage?" a soft voice somehow cut through the din of the Great Hall.

"No!" I cut in loudly. "I would give him a Redwyne or Hightower wife and have him rule over whatever was left after I razed the place. Fostering with Ned for near ten years, I'd hope the lad has learned a thing or two about honor and how to rule." Theon? Ha!

"And would that Southron nubile chit come with a Southron army as a dowry?" Lord Wyman asked knowingly.

"No scales over the eyes of the Lord of White Harbor!" I shouted gleefully. "Or are you thinking that a nubile Northern lass could do the job just as well, eh Manderly? How many granddaughters do you have again?" I poked. He had the silver for it; and some ships. Maybe it wasn't the worst idea, except for White Harbor being on the wrong side of the continent.

As a round of laughter built up in the room, a somewhat calculating look slipped off the fat man's face to be replaced by its normal look of stupid good cheer. Looking at his chubby, rosy cheeks, it was hard to remember what a magnificent, scheming, loyal bastard he'd been in the last book.

What a boring thing the Council of Elrond was compared to this. Tolkien's history lesson. The Council of Robert had the give and take of politics mixed in with a strong supply of beer and marriage proposals. Ha!

Leave it to ice face Ned to interrupt my pleasant day dream. "My lords, we've another matter of concern to all of us." The room settled more quickly for the Lord of Winterfell than it had for the Iron Throne. "My brother Benjen brings grave news from the Wall. The Wildlings have a King again and all their tribes are uniting strongly behind him. More and more Rangers go missing. Raids into the Gift increase, while the Night's Watch grows weaker and weaker. The King agrees, it is time something be done."

"And about damned time too!" the Greatjon cried. "The fucking wolves strike within a league of Last Hearth. I'll ride with you Ned!"

Several lords, presumably far northern Northern lords, shouted out in agreement.

Excellent. Volunteers to bear witness that Mount Doom and all its horrors existed ... assuming they survived the experience. If only the North knew that one simply does not walk into Mordor, I wouldn't have to trick them into getting good men killed.

"This will take some work, Jon," Ned cautioned; not about to be panicked into rash action. And so the nitty gritty work of consensus and strategy and logistics for walking into a trap began.

And I was giddy for it. The only thing left after for the Council was to broker some marriages and see if any lord wanted a weasel in their House.


	24. Part 23 - Night is Coming

I should have been out schmoozing the lords of the North. Ned should have been out schmoozing his banner lords. Nope. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Protector of the Realm, Grand Poobah of the Andals, Rhoyne, and the First Men was in a snit. The Council of Elrond had ended on a sour note of pig headed, not knowing what was best for them, Northern arrogance. Sean 's line of " _Bitch! I'm saving your shitty backward planet and you're giving me crap? Me!_ " resonated through me. Westeros could piss off. So I was keeping my football today to my own damned self and hiding out inside Ned's private work salon.

"Throw that one in the midden," Ned announced at the latest proposal that had been read off the long, compiled list.

"Aye, my lord. Lord Bole's inability to build new silos is his own concern, not the North's," Maester Luwin agreed. The man may have had a fair amount of marsh in his lands, but there were quarries in Lord Wells lands to his east. Pay up, skinflint! The scratching of quill on the parchment was audible in the quiet room; it faced towards the outer walls and away from the main courtyards, so the sounds of congregating drunk Northmen could barely be heard.

Like I was going to pout by myself? Hardly. Misery loves company. And I figured I needed the cover of doing work to explain my cowardly absence from talking with those I'd rather be punching in the face. Hulk Smash?

"More beer, your Grace?" the crannogman asked.

I tore my gaze from the window to look at the sweet pitcher of liquid bread. I swallowed in anticipation. "No, thank you, Howland," I decided. "Which one's next?" I asked, trying to pretend to be interested in "the work".

"Ahh, this shows promise, if I might say," Luwin pronounced. "Lord Manderly's idea to import a herd of the longhaired Ibbenese cattle."

"They'd likely pull sleds better than horses once the snow gets deep," Ned concurred.

"Are they draft animals? Or just built to survive in the cold?" Howland wondered.

No one had an answer to that.

"Tell Wyman before he leaves that he's to buy a shipload of them. Only way to find out," I muttered, my eyes back to staring out the window. "If they work, my goodfather's gold will pay for as many of the beasts as we can get."

More scratching of Luwin's quill, as Ned and the Maester discussed what type of ship might be best to sail the Shivering Sea and how long a round trip voyage could be expected.

Fuck Tywin. Fuck his gold. Fuck his daughter. Fuck his pride. None of this was easy. The pressure! Winterfell's seamstresses had had to take in the waist on my pants and tighten the fit of many of my shirts. I should have been happy at my control of Robert's appetites. Bullshit. I knew it was just the stress. I didn't eat so heartily when ... an entire fucking continent rode on my shoulders. Drinking however?

"Anything more to add, Robert?" Ned asked courteously, while suppressing both his natural urge to call me "your Grace" and to hide his disappointment in me.

I had actually thumped his head over the issue; the "your Grace" part, not his disappointment – that I had a lifetime of getting used to from everyone I loved. I had warned, Ned. And it had been a gentle thumping; he almost didn't fall over. "No. But I'll have that beer after all." The Lords of the North had thrown my concerns over the lack of heirs in many of their houses back in my face. Fuckwads! The North remembered … that the Freys were a bunch of late arriving, opportunistic, craven sword swallowers. Thanks for that Jon. I'd been surprised the great oaf hadn't loudly proclaimed Walder "King in the Cocksucker!"

Fuck fanfiction. Fuck myself. " _Every House is begging to make a marriage that is completely logical to me._ " Not! Did Daryn Hornwood raise his hand when I stared hard at him and say that he wished to marry Alys Karstark? No. Did Wyman Manderly announce which of his Manderly cousins would marry his granddaughters? No. Did Medger Cerwyn say who he would betroth to his teenaged son and heir? No. Did Ned say anything about Barrowton and Lady Barbrey's true status as dowager lady instead of the actual Lady she acted? No. I'd prodded him enough on the issue. Fool, she hates your bloody guts. None of the frozen bastards had any concerns of Theon fucking Greyjoy getting betrothed to a Southron lady with oodles of coin to spare. Dumb asses.

And was Cersei a help? Double fuck ha! So I forced myself to eat dinner last night in the Great Hall with a stupid shit eating grin on face, belied by the fountain of sweat cascading off of me, pretending that everything was just peachy between me and the Lords of the North.

Knock. Knock.

I pulled my gaze away from nothingness and looked over to the door.

"What?" Ned called out.

"Word from the Rookery of a raven, milord. Thought Maester Luwin might want ta know."

"Very good." Ned announced; and then swiveled his neck back around to look at Luwin. The dour looking, but kindly grayish man silently returned his stare. Then in near unison, by unsaid agreement, they both tilted their heads towards me.

"Oh, just go, Maester Luwin. I could do with a break."

The older man nodded. "Your Grace. My Lord. My Lord," he politely announced his exit and stood up.

I drained my mug, but refrained from asking for more. Sigh. Might as well cover other business. "When do you think you can head for Castle Black, Ned?"

"I must set things on course in my lands before I go talk with Lord Commander Mormont. A Great Ranging beyond the Wall is not done hastily."

"Your lords seemed enthusiastic enough for _that_. Think you'll get enough men to send strong forces from both Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower as well when it all goes off?"

"Likely. Lord Rickard and the Greatjon will support the push from Eastwatch."

"Ha," snorted Howland. "Most of his Umber bannermen might go there, Ned. But you watch, he'll show up at Castle Black and claim he heard you say that was where _he_ was supposed to go. Does Lady Catelyn know she has a serious contender for your affection?"

Ned chuckled lightly in evident agreement. Then, "My mountain clan kin will send their warriors to the Shadow Tower. I just need to spend a few weeks warming them to the idea. I'll do so on my way back from the Wall."

"Wish I could go with you." No I didn't. The farther away from the Others the better!

"To see Lord Mormont? Or go on the Ranging?"

I shrugged. "Both." Totally neither. "I would have liked to have seen the Wall," I said with a tad of longing. I guess that was partly true. Who the fuck builds a three hundred foot tall three hundred mile long wall of ice!? "But I've been gone too long from King's Landing already. No time." Was the Red Keep really any better than facing the Others? Hmmmnnn?

He nodded his head in understanding; perhaps relieved at not having been asked to be my Hand. I'd not heard any hint of him receiving a message via an eyeglass box delivered to Luwin. Perhaps that had been butterflied away too. I had desperately wanted to ask, but … too obvious. I hadn't even sent my trusted Freys to try and spy for the telescope in Luwin's quarters.

"Aye, its impressive, Robert. Even more so than the Eyrie."

I laughed. "So you always said, you bragging Northman." Well I assumed that would have been something Ned would have said a lot of while fostering with other Robert under Jon Arryn.

"It's not bragging when it's true."

"Lord Stark, have you just shot your King with a sharp arrow?"

He smiled. There seemed a hint of affection in that icy face.

Then I had to go and ruin it. On purpose. For no reason that I was in a childish snit. And I felt like it. I was a shit. "Will Jon be going with you to the Wall or coming South with me?"

Y'up crushed it. The small window to his soul fogged right up again.

"He has not decided yet, your Grace" came the clipped answer.

Howland shoved another beer in my face before I could say another word. Smart swamp ninja. I drank greedily. Was this number five or six?

Ignoring me, the pair then started talking logistics of how many men on horse could be reasonably supplied beyond the wall. Howland would be going with Ned when the alternate Great Ranging happened, likely sometime around the end of the year. I resumed staring out the window and thinking small, petulant thoughts.

"Your Grace?"

"Hhmmmn?" It was Luwin. When did he return?

"A message by raven for you."

Oh. OH! I reached out to accept the small, rolled up scroll. Jesus! It was sealed by an extra large blob of wax for its size emblazoned with two identical stags. Apparently Renly and Stannis had to both imprint their sigils. Talk about childish snits. I was a rookie compared to those two nitwits.

My thumb tore the seal apart. The hand within was spidery; Lady Olenna's writing. So that was how my "brothers" split the baby with Solomon like wisdom. A smile leapt onto my face. My mood swung upward, drastically so. "Littlefinger's dead," I blurted out excitedly.

"What?"

"How?"

"Greyjoy claims he simply slipped off one of those rope bridges of theirs leading between keeps." Seems the Mockingbird couldn't fly. Ha!

"And you believe it?"

I shrugged. I knew I wanted to the little shit dead, so why wouldn't Balon Greyjoy. The man's love of money was the complete opposite of the Ironborn's ethos. He had to have rubbed those scary Viking bastards the wrong way. Ha!

"Does this mean war?"

The whole War of the Five Kings thing could be laid primarily at Baelish's greedy, power hungry hands. Did I really want to start another one because of _him_? That seemed like the sort of irony Littlefinger would have appreciated; that is if hadn't involved his own death.

"No. Not yet. The Realm isn't ready for it. Without Jon to run things in the Red Keep, it will have to be Stannis' war to run. And I'm here, not in King's Landing. Besides, it might actually have been an accident. One never knows." I knew several people I wanted to have similar accidents of the permanent variety.

"So what shall you do, Robert?"

"Well, first. I am going to tell me friend Ned to go visit his Lady Wife. Catelyn grew up with Baelish."

The scowl that answered that statement showed Ned hadn't forgotten Brandon's duel. Oh you should be thanking me, Ned, for sending him to the Krakens. The shit betrayed you in that other universe. Not that your trusting, honorable heart could believe that; though you loathed the man.

"Yes, yes, I understand your feelings, Ned. Still, I'm sure _she_ has fond memories of the coin pusher. Lady Lysa practically doted on the man." And more. Yick! Maybe in her grief she'll do us all a favor and try to self start some flying lessons. I stamped down hard on the evil snicker I wanted to let loose at the image. The show had really nailed that one. "So go. And while you are gone, I think I'll write a letter to Casterly Rock. I'll ask Kevan Lannister to go to Pyke as my new emissary. If Balon messes with him, my goodfather will make sure all debts are paid, in full." At that, I did let lose a nasty chuckle.

When Ned departed, I called in Olyvar. With improved spirits, it was time to face the nasty task I had set myself for today: Roose Bolton.

While my squire went off to find the Leech Lord, I whipped off a note to Kevan Lannister, as well as a response to Lady Olenna. The Small Council should at least be aware of my response to the tragic accidental death of one of the Iron Throne's favorites. Bwahahahahaha!

* * *

"Your Grace," Roose Bolton spoke softly upon entering Ned's salon.

"Lord Roose, please sit down. The two of us have much of import to discuss," I said in my most ominous, non-shouting Robert voice. "You don't mind if Lord Howland stays, do you?"

The Lord of the Dreadfort offered a slight small sharp enough to flay the skin off my tongue. "Not at all." Like he could say he minded.

"Olyvar, drinks all around; whatever the best wine Ned has hidden about this dingy study of his."

"Yes, your Grace."

"Have you found this Council useful, Lord Roose?" I prodded while waiting for my succor.

"Most interesting, your Grace. I never thought the Iron Throne's attention would settle on the North," he said with subtle, quiet cynicism.

"I have much to thank the North for. I would not sit upon the Iron Throne were it not for the loyalty of the Houses of the North. So of course I am most interested in the stability of these houses. One never knows when they might be called on again to support me." Shit. Too much there. Oh, what does he know? Wine!

"My thanks, Olyvar."

"Your Grace."

I politely waited with tapping fingers for Bolton and Howland to get their glasses.

Ahhh. So good. My stomach warmed. My disposition continued improving. Time to bait the bloodless prick. "Now what did I want to talk with you about, Lord Roose?"

He blinked twice, the only sign of his disbelief at either the game I was playing or how stupid I was. Didn't really matter, did it?

"Your Grace was concerned that I brought no heir to his Council."

I gave an exaggerated nod. "That's right, I did. I was concerned. Still am. You do have an heir, don't you, Lord Roose?" I asked with the stupidest tone and facial expression I could muster.

Pause. Some sort of assessment. A soft, "No."

I brought an overly large hand up to a normal sized ear. "What was that? Did you say, 'no?'"

Another pause. "I have no heir," he agreed placidly.

"None at all? No fourth cousin, twice removed from a dimwitted Great Uncle who married a serving girl? Nothing?"

Another soft, "No."

I sighed. "Damned shame about your Dominic. A promising lad, I heard from my friends in the Vale. Damned shame," I trolled. My sincerity was patently false. But you had to give it to the Leech, he showed no nerves at all by my performance. His humors must have been well drained over the night. "What shall the Dreadfort do when you pass, Lord Roose?"

He sat there silently. Not answering.

C'mon man, the traps right there. Step into it. You don't have a choice.

Nothing.

I nodded my head encouragingly.

Still nothing.

"There is a bastard son, your Grace," Howland prodded, bless him.

One milky eye twitched ever so slightly.

"That's right. Won't do. Won't do at all. Heard things. Nasty piece of business this Ramsay. Not that he should matter one way of the other. You're a hale fellow Roose. Lots of years left to you. What you need is a vigorous, fertile little pudding to pop out heirs for you every year."

"And your Grace knows just the right Southron lady for me?"

Had to give it to Roose. He was a master of quiet sarcasm. I wanted to give him a golf clap – has to be a quiet kind of clap, doesn't it – of respect.

A large, toothy, oafish Robert smile was the initial response he got. "Oh definitely. Along with an indecently large dowry and the Iron Throne's vast gratitude. I'm sure you will agree to a betrothal once I explain all the benefits. But first, there will be a few conditions. About Ramsay Snow, I hear that he gives a new name to one dog in his hunting pack after each chase …"

Roose's milky eyes narrowed.

"… a woman's name. Curious."

* * *

After that dread experience, I couldn't stay cooped up inside Ned's salon any longer. Too much tension to release and a need to crow. Tyrek was sent scurrying off to the outer wall by the main gate to see that Roose held to his word. The man'd be a fool not too, what with Ser Arys accompanying him to the arrest of the bastard. Still, this was Westeros, and Arys had died before. No harm keeping an extra set of loyal eyes on Winter Town just in case the party from the Dreadfort was to make a mad-dash out of Dodge with the Night Watch's newest recruit. An execution, no matter how deserved, would sadly have been too large of a political distraction for me.

And myself and my needs? First, a stop to liberate a keg. The mission was slowed by all the kiss asses wanting to greet me as I passed through the courtyards. They didn't let the grudges they held from yesterday stop them. It wouldn't pay to totally give the cold shoulder to the King who promised to make their coming Winter easier. I brushed past them all with minimal cheer. Lousy, stiff necked bastards.

And second, letting Olyvar guide me to where he suspected most of his kin would be gathered. I was in an expansive mood and wanted to share my cheer and good news. No harm to my royal dignity by toting around a big oaken barrel when it involved drinking!

Ned or Catelyn had stuck my pet weasels in the towers of the Hunter's Gate; close to the kennels and the Godswood. As far as one could get from the Great Hall and the Great Keep, but near enough the Kitchen Keep that I didn't have to lug my trophy too far.

"Do you wish to gather everyone, your Grace?" Olyvar asked, while bobbing his head exaggeratedly in a specific direction.

Ha! Wouldn't that make for a totally redemptive day. Three off Santa Bobby's naughty list. "No, best not _everyone_ , I think," I answered, hope springing eternal.

Symond, the chief sneak weasel, must have gotten word of my coming; for when we turned the corner I spied him already waiting by the gatehouse entrance. First giving a bow, he then asked, "Your Grace, you bring glad tidings of a betrothal?" His face was much, much cheerier than the scowl he had displayed when I spoke to him and several other very, very disappointed Freys last night.

Seriously, did all the Freys imbibe that natural sour expression of theirs from suckling as babes at old Walder's dusty, milk devoid teats? Even in Winterfell I knew I'd sleep better now with a pack of happy weasels than disillusioned ones. "So how did Olyvar send you word?"

"Word, your Grace? You carry a tun of ale to our quarters, which you have not once visited during our stay here. What else could it be?" he replied with smirk laden logic.

Olyvar hadn't been out of my sight since escorting Roose into Ned's salon; a king needed a sommelier for Christ's sake. And Symond just happened to be waiting? No, no coincidences. "Would you like to drink from the tun or wear it, Symond?" I asked with amusement, flexing my arms to lift the heavy thing above my head. HULK SMASH!

A slight pause to judge my seriousness; then, "A blue clothe hung inside the leftmost window of your apartments, your Grace."

The barrel was lowered. I turned to my squire. "And how did you get it there, Olyvar? You never left my side," I asked, clearly perplexed.

The teen looked a bit sheepish. "There are … ah … some pages and serving maids in the keep that I've worked arrangements with … for some … uh … pre-arranged signals."

"Ha!" I laughed. We had passed several people in the halls and stairs on our way out of the Great Keep. I'd not recognize a one if shown them in a police lineup. Olyvar must have dropped a signal I never saw. Clever weasels. Too clever for my own good? My mind did a quick risk assessment. "You pay them well?"

Olyvar shrugged and then nodded yes after a moment more of thought.

Well clearly he paid them enough for that. I turned back to Symond. "And are you paying _my_ squire well?"

"As your Grace commanded weeks ago; and, we limit the passing of news to him through Perwyn as you suggested. It would serve our house poorly to give my younger brother reason to be unhelpful," he explained smugly.

"Well he hasn't had reason to complain to me yet," I agreed, and then continuing in a perfectly conversational tone, "and what color clothe is to be hung to let you know I'm coming over to crush every set of Frey balls with my warhammer?"

"Your Gggrace?" Symond stammered, the natural Frey arrogance draining out of his face.

I laughed. I was stupid, but c'mon, this was Westeros and these were Freys. "Olyvar?" I asked with a touch of sadness, having turned my head to look at him.

His face was beet read and he immediately looked down at my overly large feet in deep embarrassment.

"Olyvar?" A tad impatiently now.

"Yellow, your Grace," he whispered.

"Was that so damned hard to admit, man? I'd have been fucking ashamed of the lot you if no plan for _that_ was in place. Now let's go drink. And bring in all your sisters too. Roose Bolton has agreed to marry one of em." Besides, I enjoyed looking at Roslin. Roose had been steered clear of her. The chit really was cute as a button. And the heave of her breasts when in a low cut blouse suggested a pair of those ripe Reach peaches that Renly had bragged to Stannis of. Not that Renly thought of peaches that way. "For this, _I_ want to be the one to spring the surprise of who was chosen. So don't spoil my fun if you know what's good for ya," I growled.

* * *

The Great Hall buzzed with curiosity and good, if not excellent, humor as the Lords of the North and their heirs, deputies, and senior retainers partook of the Farewell Feast. Through the smoke and shadows from the flickering torches lighting the huge chamber, the thick smells of the meats and breads being amply dished out, and over the cacophony of voices discussing the day's strangest event; all attention was on the raised dais. Yet thankfully not much focused on me.

I smiled easier than I had at any point over the last twenty four hours – aside perhaps than receiving word of Littlefinger's death, ok who would we be fooling by denying that? – as Orland of Oldtown stood by the foot of the dais singing a plethora of insipid Westerosi love ballads. The performance was amusing, context being everything; but seriously, it grew extremely tiresome after the tenth goddamned one in a row.

"You are lucky Sansa isn't here tonight, boy. ' _Oh let me drink your beauty, fa-la, fa-la, fa-la-la-la'_ " I warbled in poor imitation of old Orland. "She'd want a betrothal of her own with all this pitching woo, eh?" I teased Joffrey.

He scrunched his face up in disgust at the idea or my singing. Someone, clearly Cersei, had warned the shit of the nuptial bullet he had dodged with the love struck, naïve red haired girl. Oh, he had found her attention at first flattering enough, until someone, Cersei(?), had crushed her dreams on that front; and the young thing's resulting despondence had grown wearisome, for all involved. Well, probably not Arya; haha.

"Much more of this lofty Reach sweetness crap and _your_ First Men might sacrifice this fool singer in their Godswood. And I'd be happy to help them," the wretch replied to my jab.

At least the twerp knew not to directly diss a Stark, even Sansa, in my presence. And I was pleasantly surprised to see him diplomatically avoid the teasing in its entirety through re-direction and get a slight dig in back at me as well. Well-played, boy.

Still, he had a point about the quality of the night's 'music.' Seriously, when the Alien Space Bats stuck me in Bobby B, if they couldn't give me true super human strength or the ability to shoot laser beams out of my freaking eyeballs; they could have at least gifted me a photographic memory and ear for Led Zeppelin's whole suite of songs. Would that have been too hard? Bend the multiverse, sure; but acceptable music? Oh suck it up human and stop complaining.

"Bard!" I roared at last with my patience drained, causing Orland to stop mid-note on his hand harp. "Play something fun, damnit!" I threw a dragon piece at him to show my noblesse oblige or largesse or whatever. Orland might have had a greybeard, but he snatched the coin out of the air nimbly enough.

"Of course, your Grace."

Was he going to say no? Ha.

The recognizable first notes to "Fifty-Four Tuns" promptly rolled off his strings.

A mighty cheer went up from the crowd. Apparently, Joffrey hadn't been so far off in his assessment of the Northerner's irritable mood in music. Joke's over for now, Roose. I raised my mug high in acknowledgement of the acclaim and then drained it in a single go. More cheers. "Another beer!" I cried, looking around for a serving wench.

I was no longer seated dead center, nor was Cersei; and for once, what otherwise would have been considered an unpardonable snub, didn't bother her in the least. She sported a shit eating grin at the new configuration that placed Roose Bolton and his newly betrothed plump weasel, Walda, center stage. In fact Ned and I were at the ends, with our heirs, followed inward first by the two senior Freys – Aenys and Hosteen – and second by our wives, and then the "happy" couple in the middle. Alas, for tonight, no room at the inn for Tommen, Myrcella, or any of the other Stark children.

Walda chatted away like an oblivious magpie with the coldly polite Catelyn, Baelish death and forced to sit with a Frey all in one day – her dream come true, when the chubby thing wasn't tormenting her "sweet lord" with ridiculous endearments or endless questions about the Dreadfort. As far as I could discern, Cersei entertained herself by regaling Roose with thirty years of Frey horror stories garnered from her Aunt Genna.

Stupid, stupid, spoiled rich girl. It wasn't as if Bolton was going to have to dread going to live in the Twins? All she was insuring was that after the marriage, no Frey other than Walda would be allowed within ten leagues of the Dreadfort on pain of flaying. Only the body weight of Walder's silver would remain behind; and my silver … and a royal charter for a port … even cornered, Roose drove a hard bargain.

Well that was a bit odd, the serving wench coming down the side aisle towards my end of the dais wore a cloak with its hood up. Beneath was a big set of tits pushing up the bodice of a red dress.

I held up my mug and shook it in her direction. "Beer!" Then with my other hand I picked up and took a huge bite out of a chicken leg. With Robert's girth, avoiding red meat as much as possible was a necessity; cholesterol could be a killer.

Funny, she wasn't carrying any mugs – full or empty. Or even a tray.

She climbed up the small set of stairs to the dais and positioned herself bold as brass opposite me on the long table. Tall for a woman. Narrow waist too. She stared at me and I found myself tongue tied.

Through the shadow cast by the hood, I spied what might have somehow been crimson eyes ...and then a sparkling ruby flash. The hood fell back revealing a cascade of long, coppery hair and a red gold choker beneath a beautiful pale heart-shaped face.

The mug fell from my stunned hands. My lap grew wet; though the mug had been empty.

"The night is dark and full of terrors, Robert Baratheon. May the Lord of Light defend you," an accented, seductive voice petrified me to the depths of my soul.

* * *

The Steward's office in the back of the Great Hall had offered the quickest place to take Melisandre somewhere private. Ser Arys and Ser Meryn of course followed me out. In the confusion, Ned made to leave the dais, but I was able to wave him back; it was the Farewell Feast after all, and he was host to his own banner lords. And no way did I want him hearing whatever the witch was about to spew. My squires were simply commanded to "fuck off" and given no further notice. Compartmentalize, Paul, compartmentalize. Oh, and improvise your ass off.

And Cersei? She glared at me, probably because the scary ass Red Priestess was as fucking gorgeous as she was frightening. The Dutch chick from the show was attractive enough, but this? Woof! If only Cersei knew the truth of it, maybe she'd actually pity me? … Nah, probably not.

And somehow Howland already waited at Vayon Poole's door. Swamp Ninja got my back! He opened the door; the only light within coming from the hearth. "Stay here," I ordered my muddled looking white cloaks. "My Lady," I chirped, indicating she should go through first. Paranoia, don't show her my back. Thankfully Howland followed us in and shut the door. I was never more thankful to have an ally by my side. Not that I could hide behind, being twice or more his size. But maybe he had a trident hidden on him, just in case.

Ahead of me, I watched Mel's hands twitch and suddenly the banked fire in the room exploded in ferocity and a multiplicity of hues of color. Against that backdrop she twirled to confront me, both terrible and beautiful.

And the existential terror and panic within me fell away to leave only the normal fears that ruled my life every day. She felt the need to impress me. Me? Ha! "Melony, you need not try to impress me. I believe in your powers. This is no game," I chided her bravely with a show of _my_ knowledge … and power?

The smile that Melisandre gave in return had the vibe a cat preparing to toy with the already captured mouse. I gulped. Behind me, I heard Howland oh so quietly shift. Trident ready? Like the red bitch wouldn't have already seen _that_ in the flames. I'm fucked.

"Azor Ahai's brother has grown as wise as he has grown afraid of life." She studied me a moment. Red eyes piercing into … what? "Though there is darkness in you, you would choose the light," she declared with a tone of low satisfaction at the prospect.

For me the whiplash of the rollercoaster simply continued. I laughed. In agreed amusement at the truth of her statement. In relief that she named me Stannis' "brother." Still, my mind spun on where to take the conversation next. I had not planned to have this moment now, word from my sources – such as they were – was that she hadn't arrived in the North yet. Who the hell fails to spot Melisandre!? "You've been to the Wall?" I hedged.

"As my lord commanded me. I am a champion of light and life."

I noted the mockery in how her words echoed her assessment of me, and let the insult fall away. Focus, Paul, focus. Where to go? Where was safe to go? What to reveal to the woman who saw everything? "And what did R'hllor reveal to … his champion?"

"The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power; fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Azor Ahai was right to heed your warning. The Warrior of Light must have brave hearts of fire to lead against the Other, or the cold will soon cover all and with it the night that never ends."

The power of her voice sent chills up my spine and caused goose bumps to break out across my flesh; no matter that I had almost guess verbatim what she was going to say.

"Brave men there shall be, Lady," Howland answered, where I was mute before her. "And those willing to lead them despite the terrible sacrifices to come. But men, even brave men, are simply men; petty, short sighted, easily distracted."

"Man and woman, old and young, lord and slave, they are all alike; scuffling through life like children blind to the truth before them. In the end, the choice will be the same for all: fight for the darkness or fight for the light beside Azor Ahai reborn."

"And Stannis Baratheon is the Prince you have promised?" the crannogman asked the much taller woman skeptically, fearlessly.

'What of Snow?' I wondered, remembering Melisandre's lone POV chapter. She had doubts then, didn't she? Was Marwyin right about prophecy? Was I a fool to cause so many butterflies?

"My lady is not alone in having visions," he continued, challenging her in the bitterest of tones.

I swallowed hard, wishing Howland had not gone there. Was Bran now doomed? Had he been doomed the moment I ordered Stannis to send her North. But I hadn't met with Howland yet. How was I to know of the plan now set in place? Was all for naught? I babbled to myself.

"You arose out of muck and darkness, First Man. Drawing strength from where the light does not reach, so you and all yours are suspect in the eyes of R'hllor. Feel gratitude that any of the Lord of Light's fire fills your soul," she replied with haughty certainty, no anger evident at the little man's provocation.

"Yet it was my fathers who first fought against the darkness; and manned the Wall for millennia," Howland said proudly and then began to recite: " _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._ "

More chills at the power words and oaths could hold. Would I hold?

"Until your watch is ended," Melisandre concluded, red eyes blazing down into the heart of the green eyed crannogman.

Unbowed, the little man agreed, "Until my watch is ended."

The intensity within her heart shape face relaxed ever so slightly. "You may suffice, Howland Reed" she announced.

Jesus, what a job interview!

"So how do we kill them?" I asked, at last finding my voice.

Her gaze turned back to me. "We?" Melisandre asked scornfully.


	25. Part 24 - A Stew Full of Weasels

The quill scratched another number on the worn, freshly roughed down, scrap of vellum. The little room off the side of the King's bedroom may have been empty except for the writer and quiet but for the scribbling; however, it was loud with thought and the memories of the commands given to his Grace's newest squire.

Everyday had been "busy" since Olyvar started squiring for Robert Baratheon the First of His Name: King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Demon of the Trident, and a man not at all whom Olyvar had expected him to be. Today being even more "busy", what with the royal party's planned departure from Winterfell in two days and the Farewell Hunt on the morrow.

The two constants for starting and ending any day was that only the three of them were allowed the ' _privilege'_ of touching the royal body; to garb him in the morning and to disrobe him of his sweat stained clothing at night. Thankfully, a large amount of that "busy" in between those two ' _auspicious'_ daily events was simply showing up. Escorting the King from room to room. Ensuring wine or beer or mead were always on hand. Making sure pages or servants were available to do most of the dirty work that might strike the royal fancy. Running the occasional errand to deliver a message or to fetch something or someone too important for a page to be trusted with.

Still, all-in-all, life the last six weeks was much, much better than it had been in the Twins. The duty was heavy, but the absence of family intrigue, back-biting, and outright random viciousness entailed in trying to gain and court his father's favor was a great relief. The world outside the narrow confines of his House's holdfast was varied and interesting.

Well, not totally devoid of intrigue. Today, the King had many peculiar requirements that he had privately told Olyvar only he could handle; secretly from Lumpy or Tyrek. And that was in addition to his own regular unique, intrigue chores involving his extended family. None of which upon pain of cock crushing by warhammer was he allowed to write down.

Ah yes, mustn't forget that either, he realized. Another number got added to the list. The squires' room was empty because Tyrek and Lumpy, as Lannisters, were granted the privilege of breaking their fast each morning with the royal family. He'd have to pick something up when he could. He wasn't worried. He'd be near the kitchens probably more than once as he ran his errands.

Tyrek was decent enough to work with, and a little more observant than Olyvar would have preferred. In the Twins, if you couldn't tell who the designated lackwit was at any gathering, that meant it was you. While Lancel was clearly the o'er privileged family idiot, the Aegon Frey, at the royal table; but cunningly using his Lannister status and the Queen's favor to avoid most of the worst drudgery of squiring. Did the fool not realize the King despised him, or did he just not care?

And the King? … mercurial was the best way Olyvar could put it. Oh, Walder was damned mercurial too; just in picking out whom his victim of the day would be and what the torture would be – physical, emotional, or both. Oh, the King could be petty and vindictive too; but thankfully not frequently so. He drank a lot. Though never to the level of turning into a stumbling wreck; praise the Seven for that, he was a BIG man and would prove hellacious to try to move while passed out.

His Grace treated most lords and knights, even smallfolks and servants, politely, kindly .. with far greater familiarity than Olyvar imaged possible in his wildest dreams. And the Demon of the Trident was also oddly shy and non-confrontational too. Again, not that he couldn't go off on his rampages when provoked … usually at the smallest, oddest things. The great man could flip between happy and sad and angry; and then back again through each, all in a near instance. Often preceded or followed by drink.

Or the presence of the Princes and the Princess. And the less Olyvar thought about the King's relationship with the Queen, the better. He'd never seen anything the like of it before; and he'd witnessed Black Walder playing mad games in pursuit of cousins and ... uh … other women in the Twins.

Though relations had turned to an early Winter between the royal couple the last few days. Ever since that Red Priestess had shown up. He couldn't exactly blame her Grace for growing jealous. The King had been spending quite a lot of time alone with the lady during the day. Not that from the other side of the door had he heard any sounds even vaguely resembling anything like what emanated out of the Queen's chambers the evenings when the King visited her. Except for the occasionally angry shouting, he reassessed.

What the Queen was experiencing now, made Olyvar wonder what it would feel like to be the most talented knight any man had ever seen, and then have a mystery knight even more skilled and terrifying come suddenly out of the dark. He'd have to remember to ask Roslin her thoughts on it. He'd see his sister soon enough. Since Walda's betrothal, the King had broken his own rule of keeping the Frey womenfolk hidden away from the Queen's " _delicate sensibilities_."

And there would be another thing to ask Roslin, had she noticed the King watching her? As a woman? Olyvar certainly had. It made him nervous. His Grace had of late suddenly started paying a lot more attention to all kinds of womenfolk. His mercurial nature had taken to leering, pinching, lasciviously suggesting, and playing patty-cakes with all the buxom young serving wenches and chamber maids.

Enough to make old Walder proud, in fact. Olyvar laughed at the image from last night of the King vigorously wiggling his face between that girl's dugs while blowing loud, wet bubbles. Yeah, the looks of ice and fire that the Queen now shot at the King … not a surprise. And not my problem, the squire decided happily, writing another number down on the vellum. Hhmmn, should be the last number to keep track of, he decided and waved the page in the air to dry it.

The Queen slipped right out of his mind; he had other concerns at the moment, attending to what the numbers on the list represented. After the royal family' morning repast, Tyrek was to make sure the King's hunting horse and riding gear would be ready for the morrow. So Olyvar intended to avoid the stables. And, surprisingly, Lancel was to be the one to attend the King; a visit to Winter Town having caught the royal fancy. Now about those normal and odd royal commands Olyvar was to follow, no more dawdling.

He stuffed the inked scrap in his pants' pocket, pleased with himself. No mention of what each was. Just spurs to his memory. There were clever ways to work around royal commands and avoid losing one's manhood. Ha!

The vellum crumpled up between the bribe bag of silver Stags and a few golden Dragons; as well as the folded, wax sealed parchment already in his pocket. _That_ the King had given him earlier, along with the many verbal given tasks to be accomplished that day. "Open at the Close" had been written on the outside of it. " _You'll know_ ," his Grace had smirked with restrained mirth when Olyvar had asked about the perplexing command.

He chewed his lip thinking again of a way to work around that royal command. He shrugged, nothing clever had come to him. He had already unsuccessfully tried holding the parchment up to a strong flame to see if anything could be revealed. No more dawdling, he swore to himself; serious this time.

Number One, all Stark children not named Rickon, even the bastard, were to attend the morrow's hunt. He did NOT feel like running Lady Stark's displeasure in the relaying of the royal command, so foist it off on … Lord Poole? Visiting the steward would allow him to ask for the fortified wine too. And he'd be near the kitchens. He could then designate a Winterfell knowledgeable back up with … Hullen? No, he decided, probably not. His musings moved on to and passed over Jory Cassell. Inspiration struck and he settled on Jon Snow.

If rumors were true, the lucky bastard would be working in a way for the King soon enough. As the two of them would soon enough be together on a regular basis, Olyvar decided there was no time like the present to start their relationship. And who better to ride herd on young wolves like Bran and Arya, he thought.

As Olyvar left the royal quarters and began to make his way through Winterfell in search of the Winterfell's Steward, he pondered if given a choice who would he rather squire for: the King or Barristan the Bold? His young knightly heart told him one thing. And his cold Frey brain said something else entirely.

* * *

"Hi, Gilliane," he said to the young chamber maid about to pass by him unnoticed and out into the courtyard in a hurry.

"Oh, Olyvar, I didn't see you," she said, coming to a stop with a lovely smile.

"You break my heart, sweetling," he said sadly.

Her pretty little face turned red and shy. "Don't say that, please?"

"But you are a sweetling," he teased.

She giggled, "No, not that. The other bit."

"Then prove it. Kiss me."

"I'll get in trouble," she whispered, looking suspiciously around.

"Then I'll just have to find another to share this wine with." And he held up a skin that sloshed nicely.

"Your so bad, Olyvar," she hissed, before darting forward to give him a hesitant kiss.

His arm snaked around her back, pulling her in tight. She squirmed a moment, then relaxed. It was a damned sweet kiss. He did let her go. She adjusted her dress to make sure she looked proper. "Are you on your way back to the Great Keep?"

"You know I am. T'is where I work. I was just running an errand."

'Aren't we all,' he thought. "Then take this with you." And he handed over the skin. "Hide it in your things and we'll share a swallow or three of it later," Olyvar said, giving her his warmest, winningest, most confident smile. Being the King's squire had definitely come with some perks.

* * *

The attendance at the daily training sessions under Winterfell's master-at-arms had dropped dramatically with the departure of all the Lords of the North. There were fewer Freys present to observe as well. Aenys and Hosteen, along with some men-at-arms and servants, had departed with Lord Bolton for the Dreadfort, to act as escort for Walda. They would remain there until the dowry was paid and the marriage consummated.

"Perwyn," he said pleasantly, moving up beside his favorite brother who was watching Cley Cerwyn go up against their half-nephew Alyn Haigh; one of many disappointed would be Frey related suitors of icy Northern untouchable lasses.

"Olyvar, a little early today, don't you think?" came the placid return greeting; eyes never leaving the match. "Oh well struck, Alyn!" his brother suddenly shouted loudly.

"Here, here!" Olyvar agreed. Cley was an indifferent swordsman. Not that Alyn was any better, just larger and stronger. Any shield to shield contact between the two should always favor Perriane's youngest son. Then quieter, "I'm busy today," he explained. "Anything?"

Perwyn laughed. "That one," and his head bobbed out towards Cley, "has taken a fancy to Roslin."

'Another one?' Olyvar thought. His sister wasn't ugly, he admitted, despite the little gap tooth in front. 'But really? This was getting a little ridiculous,' he decided, having also caught Robb Stark sniffing around her.

"It's why he didn't go back to Cerwyn. And not to continue his secret wooing of Lady Sansa, as he told Lord Medger."

"Should we encourage this match, Per?" he asked seriously. Olyvar had not taken kindly to the Lord of Cerwyn throwing the offered match of his brother back in the King's face. " _Even to the pig boy, if I must, your Grace. You have my word._ "

Perwyn laughed again. "No. Hearing Cley speak of his sister, I think the _Father_ and the _Mother_ both were looking out for me. She sounds a better mate for dear cousin Aegon."

That caused Olyvar to laugh too.

They watched the bout continue for several more blows, most made by Alyn, in silence.

Then, "I had to thrash Elmar. Caught him still watching the pile," Per muttered quietly.

"Good," he uttered about the thrashing part was. Because the mercurial King had been very explicit, after ten days of using the Freys to keep the place under near constant, but secret, observation; he had reversed himself and now the ruin was to be completely avoided under threat of warhammer induced maiming.

The match ended and Alyn was congratulated while Cley was consoled, or instructed as was the case by Ser Rodrik.

"Anything for me, brother?" Perwyn asked.

"I'm sure Symond already knows, but we are all to join his Grace on the Farewell Hunt tomorrow. Even the girls."

That raised his brother's eyebrows.

"Truly," Olyvar answered the unasked question. "Princess Myrcella and the Ladies Sansa and Arya will be riding tomorrow. His Grace desires they have suitable company."

Perwyn laughed yet again. "That should make Cley happy."

Or was it to make his Grace happy, the King's squire wondered suspiciously. You could take the weasel out of the Twins, but never the Frey out of the weasel.

* * *

"Farlen wound tan my hide! And Lord Stark worse," the young kennel hand hissed, glancing nervously about.

Olyvar thumbed another two Stags into his palm to land next to the other three silver pieces already laying there.

The man licked his lips greedily. "I'd get kicked out of Winterfell. Those aren't regular dogs," he whined softly.

The squire didn't let his gaze vary.

"Two more," the man asked with a fast hush. "Make it a full Moon and I'll do it."

The extra pair plopped into his palm. The man moved to snatch them. Olyvar closed his hand into a fist. "You know the time?"

The kennel grunt nodded quickly.

"And which one, again?"

"Nymeria," came the semi resentful answer.

He opened his hand and the silver disappeared in a flash.

Olyvar heard a sound and whipped around in a fright of his being discovered.

The man laughed at his discomfort. "It's only Hodor."

"Hodor," Hodor agreed.

* * *

"His Grace is very disappointed in you, Timeon."

"What did I do, Olyvar?"

His cousin hadn't done anything actually, but Walder induced paranoia instilled from birth was a wonderful tool to use. "You insulted the Boltons. Almost ruined the negotiations o'er the betrothal," he hissed with a certainty that only a fool wouldn't know it.

"I … well …" his cousin scratched his head in thought, clearly perplexed. Then he predictably took the safe course, "Tell his Grace, I'm sorry," the youth said contritely.

How many times had this game been played at the Twins; all in fear of having disappointed old Walder? Each of them when their turn for the trick came up too afraid to try and set the truth straight if the punishment didn't seem too onerous; just wanting their father's / grandfather's / great grandfather's unwanted attention (real or not) to pass by and willing to do almost anything for it.

"I will, Timeon. But his Grace does not want to see your face at tonight's feast."

"I'll be invisible as a ghost. Promise," the man chuckled nervously.

"Oh you better be. Cause the King wants you haunting someplace else."

Timeon's head bobbed up and down encouraging, almost begging, Olyvar to tell him where; so long as it wasn't horrible.

"The Godswood Tower."

His cousin's head kept bobbing. "Uh … which one's that Olyvar?"

The oaf had been here two weeks and not a clue. 'What an anvil brain,' Olyvar thought disgustedly. "Inner wall, two towers North of the Hunter's Gate." The directions garnered no recognition, forcing him to explain further. "The Hunter's Gate? So two towers North of where the family is quartered," he intoned forcefully.

"Oh, sure, sure, Olyvar. That it?" The plaintive begging on his face was pathetic.

"No." Olyvar decided that stupidity like that needed extra punishment, so he elaborated on the King's requirement. "You are to walk up and down the stairs until the King tells you to stop."

Timeon's eyes bugged out. "His Grace will check on me?"

"Yes, he will." 'As far as you think, muttonhead,' Olyvar chuckled in his mind.

* * *

"His Grace, wishes this?" the singer asked.

"He does." Orland had taken many royal dragons over the last two weeks. He didn't blink at accepting two pieces of gold for two of the three very specific songs 'requested' of him by the King through his squire. That was his going rate, for the Iron Throne, after all. The greybearded warbler had after all had something to bond with Robert Baratheon over; a deep passionate dislike of Aerys Targaryen. There was a reason Oldtown was in the North and had become House Manderly's official bard twenty years ago. "You know all three, don't you?"

The singer responded with a scornful look, as if dreadfully insulted. Then, satisfied his non-verbal message had been received, moved on to more mundane, functional issues. "For that middle song, I foresee possible repercussions to my good name. My price will be larger, much larger."

"You will have his Grace's full protection," Olyvar assured him.

Again, that look.

The squire sighed, knowing he was defeated. "How much?"

"Ten dragons."

"Ten!?" He squeaked, such a payment would only leave him silver with which to provide the rest of the day's bribes.

The old bard was not to be moved despite the squire's best protestations and minor threats. Eventually, Olyvar was reluctantly forced to agree to the outrageous price.

"Now, for the last song," Orland continued as if the just past disagreement had never occurred, "Normally, I have played it while inside the …"

"No, no. His Grace was very specific," Olyvar cut in. "Tomorrow you will play 'Let me Drink your Beauty' from the outside. Stroll about on the path beside it if you want, to be sure you are heard inside."

The graybeard's face scrunched up in thought. "But isn't his … ?"

"No questions, singer. You are well paid for your services."

* * *

If his calculations were correct, the cleaning should now be over and the room free, so Olyvar made his way across … Seven Hells.

Cousin Cleos spotted him at the same time and paused mid-stride.

'No, no, just keep walking, Cleos,' he begged to himself.

His cousin resumed walking, slowly, clearly looking about for the nearest alternate destination he could turn off towards.

'No one is bothering to watch us,' Olyvar's thoughts pointed out, wishing Cleos could read them.

Now the older cousin came to a complete stop, Adam's apple bobbing up and down nervously in his scrawny neck.

'So many Aegon's in my family,' he thought with disappointment. This one had taken the King's demand of having only Perwyn out of all the Freys talk to his squire a little too much to heart. 'Must be his mother, too afraid not to do what he's told to do.' Not that Olyvar could blame the older man, Genna Lannister was pure battleaxe; harridan, shrew, nag, bitch all too complimentary.

Olyvar kept on walking, as he approached the frozen Cleos. In passing, all he said was, "Cousin. Hope to see you on the morrow for the Hunt."

"Yyy-yes."

Olyvar didn't slow at all at the short, stuttered response; ignoring the Queen's cousin just as much as he'd heard the Queen ignored him.

* * *

Roslin looked at him as if _he_ was Aegon. "Of course his Grace watches me. He's sad."

"I know he's sad, Roz," he responded all insulted. That was one of the King's four standard moods. He wasn't a blithering idiot.

A very feminine sigh answered him. "Because he's so lonely, Ollie." Pause. "Can't you see it in his eyes?"

Lonely? What the Hells? "I do not spend my time staring into the King's eyes, Roz. Thank you very much. You think I'd be mad enough to do that?"

"Well if I was married to her, I'd be desperately lonely too. No wonder he drinks so much."

"What are you talking about?"

Another feminine sigh. "Men."

* * *

Turning the corner, Olyvar looked down the street for the sign of the _Smoking Log_. He hadn't bothered asking any of the town folk he'd already passed where the King might be. Of course he had asked the guards at the main gate whether his Grace had returned, but after that the squire relied on his gut feeling for the King. 'Where else,' he decided, 'if not back in Winterfell, would the great man be but at the one proper inn in this half deserted town?'

The sound of Southron drinking songs, delivered loudly and badly out of tune, assured him that he would not have to return the remains of the bribe bag to the King – the bet he'd given himself if his instinct had proven wrong. He knew he'd have kept it anyway, he wasn't going to fool himself to believe otherwise.

" _When the twentieth tun is drunk that leaves a score and more to go. Pop the next bung and drink it down. We'll be here all night. And hopefully all next too if the wife don't know._ "

He pushed through the door. The taproom was full with the royal party and those Northmen willing to stop part of a day's work in order to see a King … drink … and sing; one arm holding a big mug and the other draped sloppily over Lumpy's shoulders.

" _Oh gather around my friends. There's plenty ta drink for the smiths, the crofters, the barkeeps. And most of all don't forget the whores._ "

Ser Meryn stood back in the shadows behind the crowd about the King, apparently the only one not drinking. Olyvar's counting eye spied four … five of the family. Alesander, Symond's eldest, gave him a brief, observant acknowledging wink. And there were two Frey retainers present as well; runners, just in case.

" _When the thirtieth tun is drunk that leaves a score and four to go. Pop the next bung and drink it down. We'll be here all night. And hopefully all next too if the gaol's all full._ "

He slipped through the crowd to the bar and pushed a penny across it. "Mead." The copper coin promptly disappeared and soon enough a rough cup was before him. It tasted good after all the running he had done. The King seemed happy. With his list mostly accomplished, Olyvar decided he could relax.

" _Oh gather around my friends. There's plenty ta drink for the smiths, the crofters, the barkeeps. And most of all don't tell the septas_."

And the locals got to see their King play patty-cake too. A red headed serving wench was now on the royal knee; mug holding arm enfolded about her waist as he gave her a horse ride. The mug must have been empty, for Olyvar saw nothing splashing up on to the woman's tits … except the King's forearm.

" _When the fortieth tun is drunk that leaves ten and more to go. Pop the next bung and drink it down. We'll be here all night. And hopefully all next too if the watch don't know._ "

Olyvar spit out his mouthful of mead. Thankfully none of it went out his nose, which would have stung something fierce. The King was trying to pass the wench over to Lumpy's lap. And the prissy snot was having none of it. Now the royal strength was holding her crosswise and rubbing her tits across Lancel's chest … to much cheering in the inn. Of which Olyvar happily added his voice.

" _Oh gather around my friends. There's plenty ta drink for the smiths, the crofters, the barkeeps. And most of all don't forget your silver._ "

An even louder roar went up. Lumpy in his squirming to get away had fallen off the back of the bench on to his arse. Laughingly, the wench was set down and upright. Lancel scrambled to his feet. And to the crowd's delight, the rough wench's hand had snaked out to grab the snot's twig and berries. In the noise, the squire couldn't hear what she shrieked at him, but he could read lips – who in the Twins couldn't? – "Whatch ar'ya, a bung hole lova?"

" _When the fiftieth tun is drunk that leaves none and four to go. Pop the next bung and drink it down. We'll be here all night. And hopefully all next too if the four be large._ "

Lumpy's face turned Lannister crimson. He raised his hand … and suddenly there was the huge hand that had swung the warhammer at the Trident; grabbing Lancel's puny one by comparison. "A knight does not strike a lady!" the King roared, face purpling.

The sounds of Fifty-four Tuns abruptly fell away to silence.

"Get out of my sight!" And the Queen's cousin was unceremoniously spun and flung towards the door. Lancel staggered and promptly fled.

The standing Crowned Stag looked angrily around the tavern room. "Well somebody start fucking singing something, for Gods sake!" he proclaimed loudly.

Alesander was the first to heed the royal command. He did have a sweet voice. Not that his choice, a smart one considering the King's tastes, required it.

" _A Bear there was, a bear, a bear!_ "

"That's more like it," the King growled.

Other voices joined in. " _all black and brown, and covered with hair. The bear! The bear!_ "

The King started a slow turn, eyes piercing the room. Many, many more voices were added into the musical, mostly off-key fray. And the locals got to see their King's temper too. Mercurial. Recognition dawned in the deep royal blue eyes. Olyvar had been seen and recognized. A big finger pointed in the squire's direction and crooked once.

" _and down the road from here to there._ "

He obeyed the summons.

The King was already seated again by the time Olyvar arrived through the crowd.

" _The maid with honey in her hair!_ "

"Sit."

He obeyed.

"Is all well?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"Happy to hear it, Olyvar," the King replied and promptly dropped a big arm over his next squire's shoulders.

Olyvar stared up and over into the King's eyes. He decided Roslin was right. Robert Baratheon looked anything but happy.

" _He smelled the scent on the summer air!_ "

* * *

An added bonus of Lumpy's earlier humiliation was the King's continued, vocal displeasure with his senior squire. Despite his Lannister blood, Lancel's presence was forbidden in the Great Hall that night for the feast. Olyvar, instead of sitting with his kin in the back, was forced to be "busy," standing at the back of the dais behind the raucous, unhappy King and the stiff, unhappy Queen.

Food and beverage were taken in quick snatches by him and Tyrek. Ser Arys and Ser Meryn refrained entirely. The life of a white cloak was not for him, not that he hadn't long ago realized that. For Jon Snow's sake, if rumors were true, it did make him wonder what the responsibility of a white cloak's squire would be in a situation like this.

When he snatched a quick mug, he kept to beer. The potent, fortified wine he had shared a few swigs of with Gilliane, had set his head spinning. He blamed that for almost getting caught when he switched skins later as the King had directed.

Olyvar came to attention, eyes jabbing outward in anticipation; the harp playing the hall had squeaked to an unexpected halt; the Queen was standing.

"Lord and Lady Stark, my thanks for another lovely feast of the Northern dishes I have come to expect from your Hall. It grows late and I tire," she excused herself, but not her backhanded compliment.

The King roughly pushed away the serving wench who had practically been sitting in his lap and swayed up to his feet. "Awww Cersei, the funs barely started. Stay. Stay," he cajoled peevishly.

"No, not tonight Robert. I …"

The familiar, dire chords started and Cersei's mouth first dropped open in surprise; and then snapped shut in an anger that reached past her eyes to infuse her entire face.

" _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_ "

"This is unbearable!"

"What?" the King's loud voice rumbled back in barely contained amusement, though his face was pale and sweaty.

" _Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know._ "

"You planned this!"

"I plan nothing!" he roared back.

Lord Stark, at last understanding, stood and cried, "Orland!"

The hand harp stopped instantly.

The Queen gave no more answers other than storming off the dais.

The King followed, crying "Cersei, Cersei, come back luv."

Startled by the developments, other than the white cloaks, the rest of the royal party was slow in following after their master. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella seemed little affected by the drama and kept eating.

Olyvar and the rest of the trailing group caught up to the royal couple and the white cloaks at the entrance to the Great Keep.

"Keep your disgusting hands off me," she snapped, yanking an arm out of his hand. Inside she stormed.

In the dim light and shadows cast by torches, the King's eyes did at last seem very, very lonely to Olyvar. He was surprised he'd never seen it before. Sadness … and fear too.

"I'm not ready for bed yet," the King declared, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of the large mitt that had last held the Queen's flesh. "Let's take a walk," he commanded.

"Aye, your Grace," everyone dutifully replied.

"What's the quickest way up to the wall," he asked, pointing at the inner, hundred foot tall, curtain.

"Follow me, your Grace. I know the way," Ser Arys said kindly.

Robert Baratheon was not the only one of the party breathing heavy and perspiring by the time the goal was reached. The King headed south in a darkness only broken by the occasional torch and the low glow of a quarter moon.

The pace was steady, but not particularly fast. Some guard towers were passed through and others passed around on walkways that protruded out over Winterfell courtyards or building tops. No one said a thing when the King came to the corner and turned right to head West along the Southern Wall.

A few parts of Winter Town were visible from that side. Guards came to attention as the King passed through the walkway inside the main gate towers. The smell of manure told of stables hidden in the black below. And as the next corner was reached, the King continued on, turning North on to the Western Wall. As if seeking to make a circuit of the whole castle, the king passed by the Bell Tower and the Kitchen Keep and the Maester's Tower with the faint sound of the fluttering of ravens' wings. Next came the Hunter's Gate, and on the royal party continued silently.

"Let's go in here," the King commanded, at last breaking his silence, as an upcoming tower loomed darker than black in the night.

'Well, fuck me', Olyvar thought. The King really was going to the Goodswood Tower. Was it a coincidence? Were the list of royal commands for the day all that odd, afterall, he wondered.

Ser Arys went in first.

Down through the dark the royal party started circling on the stone stairs.

"Your Grace?" a voice familiar to Olyvar called out hesitantly, afraid.

It was Timeon.

"Hold!" Ser Arys cry cut the night. Then …

Crash! Clank-clank-clank-clank "Ooooofff." "Agggghhhhh." Clank-clank-clank … pitang.

"What in Seven Hells?" his Grace bellowed.

"I think Ser Arys fell," Tyrek offered lamely.

"Of course he fucking fell! Go help him," The Crowned Stag commanded angrily. Olyvar immediately started moving with the pages and his fellow squire.

The King's arm grabbed Olyvar. "Bit crowded here. Don't want you tripping. Let the others go first."

"Of course, your Grace"

The King set a more sedate pass in following. At a crossing in the stairs for where a hallway built into the interior of the wall passed by, King and squire came upon two pages helping a blubbering, wincing, bruised Timeon Frey. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. Oh your Grace. I'm so sorry. Don't be angry. I didn't see your loyal, loyal white cloak."

His Grace ignored the fallen weasel. "How's Ser Arys?!" he yelled down the continuing stairwell. Apparently the unfortunate knight had kept tumbling while his ambusher came to a softer rest.

"Knocked out, your Grace," came the call up out of the darkness. It sounded like Tyrek.

"Lovely," came the grumbled royal response to the news.

"Awooooooooooo!"

"What next?" his Grace complained bitterly.

'Nymeria?' Olyvar wondered. The timing could be right, he thought, remembering the instructions he'd given the kennel hand. 'So odd, but fitting considering what just happened with Timeon,' he assessed. "Sounds like a wolf, your Grace," Olyvar suggested.

"Bloody marvelous. Should have stayed with Cersei. That's a bitch I'm familiar with."

"Awooooooooooo!"

And then a much, much softer sound followed on the echoing wolf cry, "Come back Nymeria. Heel girl, heel."

The sounds were definitely closing in.

"Ser Meryn? Protect me," the King commanded.

The uninjured white cloak stepped up into the hall in front of his liege, where the louder growing sounds were coming from. All eyes of the royal party strained ahead into the darkness. "Nymeria!" a child's voice. Skrit, skrit, skrit. The sound of claws on stone.

Ser Meryn drew his sword.

CRASH!

A furry body would not be stopped. First Ser Meryn, and then other bodies flew.

Olyvar tumbled backward, head spinning around. Something wasn't right. 'Where was the King?' he thought. The great man had been right behind his squire. But he wasn't there now. 'Where has he …?'

In the recess of the shadows, the squire's eye barely saw the edge of a hidden door close.

And then he hit the ground ... painfully. The worst was the left over bag of silver in his pocket jabbing him too close to his groin for comfort. Instinctively his hand reached underneath to shift it away. In doing so, he felt a folded piece of parchment beside the velvet sac.

A fire took blaze his brain, pushing back the darkness of his ignorance. "Open at the close," he mumbled.


	26. Part 25 - Flights of Fancy

_A low, husky moan brought Cersei out of a deep slumber. The room was dark as night; hiding the source of the sound. All she could initially discern about her surroundings was that the bed was hard and cold beneath her flesh that tingled with an exquisite fire._

" _Ooooooooh," came a repeat of the earthy, deep pitched sound. Coinciding with the cry, her muscles in legs, belly, and arms clenched and unclenched as pleasure radiated out of her long denied velvet purse. And only then did Cersei realize she was the one moaning in gratification._

" _Yes, no, yes," she whimpered softly at the intimate touches making her wetter and wetter; warmer and warmer; burning in delight._

 _He had at last returned to her._

 _She would not be denied any longer her perfect twin._

 _Her other half._

 _Two making one._

 _He was her light._

" _Take me," she commanded, thighs aching for the powerful thrusts she remembered so well and yearned for._

 _No answer came to her plea. But she felt his weight upon her legs and touch upon her mons; that and the darkness he refused to pierce with his golden shaft confined her._

" _Take me," she pleaded, pelvis involuntarily thrusting up towards the caressing that was driving her mad._

 _She must see him. Feel him. In her._

 _She willed her fingers to stop curving and her arms to cease clutching tight against her heaving body. Her need was too great. She reached out to lay hands on him, to grasp his hair, to drag him and his familiar weight up upon her._

" _tsk, tsk, tsk," came the quiet remonstration._

" _Jaime?" she gasped._

" _No one."_

 _Anger coursed out in a torrent. The black enveloping her senses was not the Night. It was_ his _false creation,_ his _lies,_ his _attempt to control her; a silk bond, but bondage none the less. Cersei would allow no one, and never Robert, to make chattel of her._

 _Striving, furious, desperate hands now sought a different relief. The blindfold was wrenched off to reveal a startling vista. Cersei discovered herself back in King's Landing. And worse, she sat upon the top seat of Iron Throne with her dress pulled up to her hips and ugly, greedy Robert kneeling between her naked, damp thighs._

 _Humiliation soared through her. Gathered at the foot of the raised dais was row upon row of great lords, proud ladies, and colorfully dressed courtiers; heads all raised up in anticipation at her and her glistening prize. Their faces she could not spy, for the Throne Room was poorly lit, casting shadows to blind her. But their wagging tongues she heard, the hall full of the buzzing of her lesser. They were all her rivals, her enemies; jealous and feeble and contemptible. She was the daughter of the Rock, a lioness._

" _You have only to ask and you shall receive your heart's content, Cersei," Robert smirked up at her._

 _She contemplated the truth of it a moment. "Die!" she screamed, foot lashing out to smash her tormentor in his fat, sweaty, oh so pleased with himself face._

 _Robert immediately tottered back. Hands that reached out in search of purchase instead caught and sliced themselves upon the sharp blades and barbs molded by the flaming breath of Balerion the Black Dread. "AAAAAGGGHHhhhhh," he sang sweetly, blood spraying out from a multitude of cuts._

 _Cersei felt herself moistened more from the excitement of it, her goal at last within reach. The powerful Lioness' paw thrashed out again in fury._

 _And the hapless Stag stumbled backward, tumbling down the throne's dangerous stairs; soft belly and even softer genitalia eviscerating themselves on a litany of protruding, warped cold steel –the deadly blades now warming themselves with his wretched viscera, watery crimson, and weak seed._

 _Lady-like, royally in fact, she rose up in triumph; her dress, a deep green that matched her eyes, falling gracefully down into place. As she stood to her full height, the golden sun, long hidden, emerged to shine brightly through the windows on high; illuminating her. She appeared beautiful and flawless and strong._

 _Jaime at last revealed himself, materializing from the no longer faceless crowd; his golden armor burnished and brilliantly framed by his white cloak. The light highlighted his blonde curls to perfection. He knelt purposefully by the exsanguinating corpse of no one. "Robert is dead," her twin jubilantly proclaimed._

 _She quivered from a powerful climax of both joy and body._

" _Long live Queen Cersei," a familiar voice cried out. It was her father, pushing his way to the front; eyes shining with intelligence and parental pride._

" _Long live Queen Cersei!" the entire Throne Room burst out._

* * *

A wolf howled. A second and then a third joined in. Then the whole chorus of vicious beasts erupted; filling the darkness and bringing Cersei fully awake. _A dream only a dream_ , she realized. Night still hung over Winterfell. And within a cold, heartless Northern castle, the Queen of all Westeros discovered a fiery, sodden mess about her pubic hair and dripping down between her inner thighs.

Full red lips spread in a wicked smile at the lingering memory of one hazy dream and the birth of another more solid vision. Soon, a well-shaped, gold be-ringed hand slipped under furry blankets and beneath the hem of a silken nightgown, seeking fulfillment and providing the dowry of a lioness' promise.

* * *

Joffrey chewed his slab of black bread and honey thoughtfully. Cersei appreciated the time she spent with the handsome, strong, young lion of her pride. Normally he would not be with his mother in the morning room of Winterfell's Royal Quarters breaking his fast, but already off with his dog honing his martial claws.

Not today, Cersei thought amusedly. Oh there were many loud noises from out in the castle's main yard and most subsidiary courtyards too; of horses and men and hounds gathering. But blissfully, no sound of her bellowing, large mouthed husband from either within or without the Great Keep.

"No, Tommen, finish those fish and your crackling," she admonished her younger son as he rose up from a half finished plate.

Guiltily, he drooped back down, doing as he was bid. "I want to play with Bran," he half mumbled and half whined while dutifully picking back up his fork.

Joffrey snorted disdainfully at his brother. Had she chastised her eldest, he would have fought her over it; forcing her to cow him one way or the other.

Tommen's meekness, on the other hand, troubled Cersei just as much, but in a different way; more a mouse than the lion he should be. Too plump as well, not lean and sleek and strong like her and Jaime, or Joffrey. Perhaps his not finishing would have been for the best. In her few moments of weakness, she sometimes wondered whether her youngest might be Robert's after all; though she knew it to be impossible.

Then Myrcella stepped in, taking a different tack in support of her younger brother, "Where's father, Lancel? I wish the hunt to start," she commanded, not yet at her young age having come to the realization that where men were concerned disappointment inevitably lay.

Her cousin cleared his throat. "I did not have duty with him this morning, cousin," he answered, putting the best face possible on his situation.

Lancel, while properly attired and ready to attend Robert on the hunt if called upon, would likely not have been present here in the morning room if Cersei had not given him proper incentive to provide his protection against further of Robert's degradations. Her spies, yesterday, had whispered of her cousin's shaming and exile from her husband's presence; 'Just like Robert to defend the honor of whores,' she thought disgustedly yet again.

"What did Tyrek or Olyvar say?" her beautiful daughter continued.

Lancel's mouth twisted briefly at the mention of the Frey squire. "Tyrek is searching for him. Apparently no one knows where his Grace went off to when that damnable loose direwolf came barreling through the useless lot of them."

"Nymeria's sweet," Tommen protested. "Arya lets me pet her."

"Poor Ser Arys and Poor Ser Meryn," Myrcella lamented of the wounded, badly embarrassed Kingsguards.

Robert's disappearance last night, from what Cersi had heard, was more than a tad odd and not at all like him when he wanted to get his cock wet. Countless times, to her shame, he just went off and fucked who he desired; other's sensibilities be damned.

"Duty or no, father is the King, and with both the white cloaks incapacitated, you should be searching for him with all the others, cousin," Joffrey sneered at Lancel.

Cersei laughed scornfully in answer to her son's barb. "If Robert can't find his way out of whatever … wine soaked cellar he's lodged himself deep into, then he should hand over his crown to someone worthier of it." And she lessened the sting aimed at her Joffrey by smiling at him; though it had been difficult for her to say "wine soaked cellar" instead of what words first tried to force their way out of her mouth.

Lancel smiled sweetly at Cersei and added with proper contempt, "Lord Stark's men should suffice to discover your father. Winterfell is _their_ piddling, little castle; nothing like the Rock or the Red Keep."

Cersei returned the look appreciatively. They were both, Lannisters; both lions.

"I am sure the hunt will commence one way or another soon enough sweetlings," she reassured her children. Receiving their smiles, Cersei next happily speared up a piece of venison and started to greedily devour it. Meals were ever so much more pleasurable with only her pride in attendance.

And then an ominous thought grabbed her in mid chew, causing the hunk of deer to catch in her throat. Her pride was incomplete. She was incomplete. Jaime was missing.

"Cersei?" Lancel shouted, leaping to his feet as she choked on half gnawed stag.

* * *

When Tyrek has arrived with word that the King was at last found and coming; unlike her children chomping at the bit, she had regally returned to her room to change. The day seemed like one demanding she wear her heart's own true colors: fiery crimson and striking gold. And despite being "found," Robert maddeningly still made his own hunt wait.

From the balcony of her bedchamber she watched trusted Lannister retainers help Tommen and Myrcella to mount. If they spied her up on high and waved for her attention, she would acknowledge them; but Cersei refused to make a fool of herself by waving like some pathetic mummer's show desperate for all the castle to see.

Joffrey already bestrode his frisky roan stallion; eager to be gone, with Clegane faithfully by his side - after Darry, she had particularly ordered her son's shield to always stay by his side no matter how fearsome a beast might be charging the King. She sighed; Joffrey never once bothered to look up. Cersei knew instinctively his thoughts were elsewhere and the thought to seek her out would not cross his mind; now or later. A disappointment that would only grow worse once he wore the crown, she realized.

The low buzz of indistinct voices below her turned into a bit or a roar as Robert finally waddled into view, staggering as badly as the damned Imp after thorough sousing. He propped himself up from falling to the ground by leaning badly on that Frey squire of his. Several more weasels followed dutifully behind, ready to pick him up should he embarrassingly land on his ugly face.

Even from far above, Cersei swore she could smell the remnants of stale drink and slutty quim on him. "Did you enjoy her, Robert?" she muttered darkly to herself. "Or were you so drunk, you don't even remember the horrid cunt?"

He could have had her willingly, if he had properly begged she grudgingly admitted; before that foreign bitch showed up to turn his oh so easily turnable head. Now that would never happen. "You almost had me convinced, you and your 'No One'," she whispered bitterly.

Thinking evil thoughts of that red haired bitch, Cersei moved her discerning eye over the crowd; searching for any sign of the so called lady, but seeing nothing of her among the streaks of sunlight or shadows cast by Winterfell's many towers.

This _Melisandre_ , she admitted, had a certain exotic aurora about her; far from being as beautiful as Cersei, but sadly not actually unattractive. Had he teased her last night like he had mocked my velvet purse over the last six weeks, she wondered? There had been so many … ways her husband had tortured her body. More like he had not been intimidated by the slut and mindlessly plowed her field with his seed, she decided.

The memories caused her loins to inadvertently start to ache. "I need you, Jaime," she choked out. And then Cersei turned away from the scene below and stepped back in to the safety of her bed chamber; while silently renewing the vow she had made to herself in the middle of the night.

* * *

Without the multitudes, Winterfell did hold a certain quaint charm, if one could look past the mud and snow and cold. The hodgepodge of uncoordinated building made for an intriguing maze of old, moss and lichen covered stone keeps and towers and ruins to walk amongst; never knowing when you might come upon a small garden or a hot pool off of which an intangible mist rose into the cool castle air. The godswood was ancient and foreboding in a crude First Man sort of way; not to be lightly trodden through by the civilized.

The glass garden, however, offered Cersei and her party a consistent bright spot in the gloom of the Northern. Most days she would visit it, and today, with Robert off, was no exception for her and her ladies-in-waiting, and dear cousin.

"Lady Catelyn did not do poorly in her choice of flowers," she said, while gently holding the bloom of a goldencup as her feather headed young ladies played touch me not among the raised banks.

"This wretched lot," Lancel scoffed. "This is nothing compared to the fields of poppies seen to the east of the Rock; or the lavender and lilacs your noble father keeps within. This lot is little better than gorse and wild onions."

Cersei's laughter tinkled with delight, lavender and lilacs had been her mother's favorites. Her hand left off the flower to lightly, briefly touch his face. "Said just like a man, Lancel. Though I care little for Lady Trout; she is trapped here as much as I am, but with no chance of escape from this arranged marriage to the North. I imagine this is the sad best she can do to remind herself of Riverrun."

Her cousin chewed his lower lip in thought at those words; perhaps calculating which part of it, the explicit or the inferred, to respond to. In doing so, his mustache, his first and still quite unimpressive, was dragged down.

"Everything seems dull besides Casterly Rock," he decided.

"So true, cousin," Cersei agreed. A fuller mustache might agree with Lancel's pretty features. How he got them, she didn't know; as stout Uncle Kevan and chinless, flat-chested Goodaunt Dorna were neither in the least what she would call attractive, even generously for family. Of course she never liked it when Jaime went on one of his periodic jags of refusing to shave.

"Though, I suppose King's Landing lays claim to a few things that not even the Rock can," he added to temper his initial claim.

"Yes, the Iron Throne for one," she said with a knowing smile. Thoughts of it sent chills of excitement over her body and radiating delectably into her deepest recess.

"A pity his large arse must sit upon it," Lancel growled softly with sweet, sweet darkness.

Unrestrained delight erupted from Cersei's ruby lips, immediately drawing the attention of her attendants. Her cousin's face suddenly turned red, having spoken the unspeakable words. ' _When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die._ '

"Your Grace?" Tyella, the boldest of her ladies-in-waiting, asked at her outburst.

"I am in a playful mood and desire my heart's content. Go find my golden Pentos bracelet," she commanded. That it was a lie barely crossed her mind. "Lynore, go fetch a plate of those date stuffed pastries we had the other day. Sybell, find a bottle of Arbor gold. And Denyse, your dress is simply dreadful, go change it before I order my cousin to rip that rag right off of you."

They all bowed and scurried off to obey, knowing her talons were sharp. It satisfied her to see others tremble before the lioness.

"I have wine if you desire it, Cersei," Lancel said modestly. She turned back to him and found him holding out a wineskin.

"Robert's?" she asked sternly.

He nodded shyly. This one was not as strong as Jaime. Still, he might have his uses.

"What's my husband's is mine too," she commanded. Her cousin handed the filled bag over. She uncorked it, tilted her head back, and drank deeply. A red. Blood from my prey, she imagined. Satisfied for the moment, she pushed it back into his hands with another command, "drink."

He placed his mouth over where her lips had just been and raised up the skin; slaking his thirst. Not as stronger or as handsome as Jaime, but prettier somehow in a masculine way, she decided as she studied him.

He lowered his arm.

They stared at each other; no words exchanged. Winterfell, all the North, at that moment was quiet but for the beating of her heart.

And then, oh so softly, from a long ways off; as if ... as if, she heard: " _Then I took this fair maid by the lilywhite hand._ "

Green eyes stared back at her. Once again she was in that dismal inn off Weasel Alley. It had been a long time since she remembered that night.

" _I placed a kiss on her sweet rosy lips_ ,"

"The bard," Lancel whispered, trying to break the mood.

"Shhhh," she told him, placing the tips of her fingers on his rough lion lips.

" _And I drank your beauty till it filled me._ "

Each twin, dressed in roughspun, badly dyed clothes, had snuck out of the Red Keep, away from father's guards to that inn. Now she wore silk and velvet.

" _To the meadows we wander'd away; I placed my love on the primrose bank._ "

That night, the first time with Cersei has a flowered woman and Jaime has a belted knight, they lay together.

" _And I drank your beauty till it filled me._ "

Her belly felt warm and her loins warmer.

" _Then early next morning I made her my bride,"_ _  
_

But Jaime was not here. He had not made her his bride. She must have him anyway.

" _That the world might have nothing to say;"  
_

Her hand slide across his soft cheek and clutched the back of his neck. Green eyes widened. She saw a fiery lust within growing. She nodded at him knowingly, pulling him closer and closer.

" _I crown'd her the sweet Queen of Love;_ "

He didn't hesitate when their lips met. His arms wrapped around her back; holding tight.

" _And she let me drink her beauty once more._ "

He didn't taste or feel like Jaime. But Robert had his whores. So why couldn't she quench her ache with a lion? She reluctantly unclenched from his embrace. Someone, servants even, might come upon them. "Where can we go?" she whispered desperately.

"I know a place, my love," he answered huskily.

* * *

Once inside the ruined tower, they came to grasps again; appetites near insatiable. Several smallfolks had seen them and bowed as they passed since leaving the glass garden. Luckily none had spied them in the last hundred feet or the dash within.

"I need you, Cersei," her cousin moaned. "So beautiful. So perfect."

She felt his hard, burning need pressing against her softer, wetter belly. "Not here," she gasped. "Further up. Up," she wheezed, and then snatched the skin at his side, seeking to satisfy her thirst. He joined her; laughing, euphoric.

And then they ran up the uneven, old stairs, giggling together at the urgency and madness of it all. After multiple circular flights they could go no farther, the steps onward in utter ruin or missing completely. This left them in some small hall with a row of windows looking outward and the moment to kiss with abandon.

Cersei felt herself turning and turning in her need and agony. "Touch me," she commanded Lancel when she could stand it no longer; grabbing his arm with one hand and hiking up the hem of her dress with the other.

His hand touched her most private, most powerful part hesitantly. "More, more," she chanted, raising her pelvis up and down on the exploring digits. "Take it … take it … out."

"Oh please. Yes. Yes," Lancel agreed; green eyes mad, blonde hair askew.

She helped him with his belt and his pants fell away to reveal a proud cockstand.

"Oh yes. Yes!" She agreed, holding it, pulling it forward; ready to impale herself on the fiery shaft full of blood and ...

"NOOOOOOOooooooooo!" screamed Lancel, suddenly stumbling backward; desperately reaching down for the pants fallen about his ankles. His face was frozen in terror; green eyes now petrified, staring past her towards the stairs.

Frantically she turned to … "Robert!" she shrieked, seeing him hazily in profiled in the dimly lit floor. He glided remorselessly towards her without seeming to move his legs. "ROBERT!" she screamed in pure horror, her husband entered a patch of light shining through a window to reveal an apparition with no true legs, just a swirling shadowy mass.

And then it was upon her, an insubstantial appearing hand reaching out for her. Cersei stumbled backwards, towards the fumbling Lancel and the window frames. Her husband's ghost was not to be denied, she felt a strong hold grasp about her neck.

"No, no, no, no," she spewed out in disbelief.

The thing pulled her in closer, revealing only one half of the shadowy thing to resemble Robert; the other part of the shadow being a smaller, scarred, warped form of a man – some impish, misformed demon from the depths of the Seven Hells. "Valonqar?" she choked out in terror as the evil creature's grip on her neck tightened.

Her feet scrambled for purchase as it forced its way and her towards the flailing Lancel.

"Gods forgive me. Gods forgive me. Gods forgive me," the mouse hearted lion begged. "It was her. HER! I didn't mean to! I wouldn't have! _Father_ forgive me!"

With that, Robert's staggering, weak willed squire found his back and naked arse pressed against a broken, ruined window frame … and then falling backward out of it; limp cock flapping as the wind carried away his yellow piss.

Cersei tried to grab a lungful of air as stars danced in front of her eyes, but couldn't; until the shadow of her husband's vile soul launched her too out of the broken tower. She was a lion of the Rock. She would show no fear at death's approach. ' _When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground._ '

And then Lancel's pitiful shrieks for mercy ended in an explosion of gory Lannister crimson as his body shattered on the fast approaching ground beneath Cersei.

Against her will, a cry of "Noooooooooooooooo!" escaped her full, ruby lips ... until the ground heard her scream no more.


	27. Epilogue - The Dream Shattered

"My guilds thanks for condescending to call upon our humble hall, my lord," Master Froom, which rhymed with loom, said with some evident gratitude and blissfully little of the sycophancy he had been typically receiving as he re-introduced himself to his father's domains.

The Clothe Guild's Senior Elect had smartly kept the tour short: a look into a storage room or two full of bolts of clothe, a quick demonstration of their finest weaving machines, introduction to a few of the most influential members, and then a brief explanation over a fine ale that the guild wished nothing more from Casterly Rock than assurance of continued oversight of fairness within the Lannisport Masters Guildhall and further benign neglect beyond that.

Nevertheless, Jaime found the whole thing frightfully boring and with long practice at boredom easily stifled the building yawn. "A pleasure, Master Froom," he lied with an even easier smile. "And better, no requests to involve House Lannister in petty disputes between guilds."

The solemn, balding, grey fringed man smiled and offered a small bow before chuckling softly, "Petty is an excellent word, my lord, to describe Master Gryer."

Jaime's piercing green eyes stared into intelligent, soft brown ones. Yes, this one seemed the clever type to have tracked the heir of Casterly Rock's movements within Lannisport. Gryer, rhymed with Dyer, both a perfect bore and a stupid boar to him yesterday. "The Dye Makers Guild had much to complain to me of your guild's practices," he declared with steely tone and look to simply judge how the merchant would react.

To his credit, Froom refused to flinch under the Lion's gaze. "I admit there are two or three areas where Elect Gryer's concerns have some validity, my lord – properly adjusting dye prices by whole clothe versus thread for example; however, the Masters Guildhall has wisely seen to reject the Dye Makers' overreaching suits," he answered equitably.

And thus, your continued interest in maintaining the "fairness" of the Masters Guildhall, Jaime realized. What did it really matter to him? Nothing, he decided. His concern he was beginning to better understand was whether _this_ now was the "pleasure" left him in life; watching the squabbles of coin grubbers as if they were free swords and hedge knights hammering away at each other in a tourney melee.

Jaime refrained from screaming and instead put on his bored, amused smirk. "Remind me to never play Cyvasse with you, Master Froom."

The guild head bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment while refraining from speaking to his better.

"A good day to you," Jaime permitted himself.

"And you, my lord."

The Lion saw himself out of the Clothe Merchants' castle made of wares and silver. As he tugged his riding gloves out of his belt and stepped down sunlit warmed stairs towards the pair of red cloaks guarding his horse; Jaime's thoughts drifted off to the departure of his Uncle Kevan two days earlier. 'Come back soon, Nuncle, lest I die from boredom,' he lied to himself.

While portions of each day were spent idiotically preparing for an unlikely war with the Ironborn, Robert, from his generous heart, had after all commanded him to the Westerlands for that purpose; much, if not most, of Jaime's time now involved learning the unlooked for, undesired, skills of being the heir of Casterly Rock.

As the first glove slide on over his sword hand, it twitched in yearning. Since his arrival, the dearth of turning, side-stepping, lunging, jumping thrusting, and sweating while heavily weighed down and carrying the most intimate of lovers, was near driving him to madness. And that drunk whore fucker's betrayal only made his need for release all the greater.

"Hoke," he said with an easy smile, taking White Gold's reins from the man.

It felt good to have a solid horse between his legs. If only he could truly dig his spurs into the stallion's flanks; a good hard ride.

"Where next, milord?" Puckens queried.

"An excellent question, man," he cheerily rejoined, contrary to his dour mood and blazing wants. In addition to expanding his familiarity with the life-blood of Lannisport, commerce, Father expected him to gain familiarity with the city's legal courts. " _They are only two blocks away from the Clothe Guild, Jaime. Kevan informed me there is a large insurance case over a missing cog on the docket. What do you know of Brocks Shipping?_ "

Fuck it, he decided. "To the Harbor," he announced. He owned Stannis an update on the collection of naval stores. He already had the figures from the Rock's Dockmaster, which covered House Lannister's personal wargalleys. Those spare masts, ropes, rigging, sails, and victuals were a pittance compared to the depot business run out of Lannisport for merchant and foreign ships needs; a Lannister business which they further subsidized by a portion of each slippage fee.

He saw Hoke's lips puckering in anticipation. "You'll get your ales, but no whores today," he commanded, setting expectations. Father's expectations would be disappointed, again; but so far there were still limits as to how far Jaime pushed back, for now.

Father expected much; and he was no Uncle Kevan. 'Tyrion would thrive on this shit,' he thought perversely.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Jaime twisted in the saddle to catch where the sudden pealing of bells was coming from. In his head he positioned where he was and where Loreon's Sept was.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'No, not from Loreon's,' he realized, unless the streets warped the echoes more than he calculated they should.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

People on the street began stopping and looking high to the Northeast.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

"Seven Hells!" Jaime swore; and without conscious thought his spurs viciously raked the sides.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

"Out of my way!" the Lion roared at anyone in his way.

"Milord!" "Milord, wait!" he vaguely heard until another round of bells cut muted the cries of his escorts who failed to keep up with him.

More and more and more bells started joining the chorus started by Casterly Rock to merge at the exact beat and pattern; first the large bells of Loreon's Sept and then more and more from the score plus of other, lesser septs in the city.

"Fools, the sea warning bell!" he screamed, as the blood beat through him almost as loudly as the bells, at the smallfolk all too placidly responding to the alert.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG! DUM! DING! DUM! DONG! DUM! DING! DUM! DONG! DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

"Ironborn! Ironborn!" he screamed. Men and women and children fled out of his way, White Gold's shod hooves tattooing a fast beat on cobblestone streets. The idea that Uncle Kevan could already be dead, triggered some sense of remorse in his nephew at his earlier selfish complaints about the man's absence.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

At the entrance to the harbor frontage, smallfolks and sailors stood about as slack jawed as the rest of the city; staring not to sea and the threat, but back stupidly towards the Rock.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

"Out of my way!"

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Jaime flung himself off his mount in front of the Sunset Tower, the small keep detailed with commanding the seaward defenses. Where were the red cloaks? The city watch? He wondered in utter amazement and growing anger.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

"You!" he raged at the ragged, middle aged guard at the main gate. "Why isn't the sea gate closing!? Where the fuck are the men on the outer wall!? Who's in charge!?"

"Wha-wha-what?"

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

He grabbed the lout by his mail and lifted him off his feet. "Where!?" he screamed, spittle flecking up on to the man's scummy salt-and-pepper beard.

"Wh-wh-wh-why?"

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Jaime ignored the piss leaking through the oaf's pants. "The bells, godsdamnit! Are you deaf!?"

"The m-m-m-mourning bells, milord?"

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'What?' "Mourning bells," the Lion growled, showing all his sharp teeth.

"Yyyyyes, milord."

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

His arm starting lowering the old fool. "Not the sea attack bells?"

The man shook his head no quite vigorously. "Those go 'dum-dum-dong-dong,'" he whimpered.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Jaime dropped the man utterly, letting him fall in a messy, piss stained clump at his feet. He searched his mind for when he might have heard the Rock ring that sad call; not liking that he could not remember though he knew he should.

"The mourning ones last played from the Rock when old Lady Lannister died, milord," the useless lump of unmanned flesh beneath him continued in a fearful breath.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Lady Lannister? Jaime's stomach sank in terror as it had only twice before in his life; when the Smiling Knight almost slew him in the Kingswood and the moment he killed Aerys. "Gods," he whispered. And then in a rush of gold he bestrode his horse again; knowing the stallion would bleed fiercely by the time Jaime rode through the Lion's Mouth.

* * *

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

While rumor and bad news in Jaime's experience travelled fast, neither the guards at the Lion's Mouth nor the stable hands who took White Gold's reins knew why the bells rang and rang and rang. Though as far as any of them knew, Lord Lannister was fine.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'Not Cersei! Not Cersei! Please Gods, anyone but Cersei!'

" _Hurry up, Jaime! Before the Septa catches us!" cried the little blond girl in pigtails from the lowest branch of the twisted petrified weirwood in the Stone Garden; her formerly pristine crimson smock soiled from the twins' previous antics._

DUM! DING! DUM! DOOM!

Up the Rock's central stairway, conveniently cleared of all guards and servants, Jaime sprinted.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'Not Cersei! Not Cersei! Please Gods, anyone but Cersei!'

 _"_ _And I drank your beauty till it filled me,_ _" the singer on the floor below them in the shoddy old inn on Eel Alley crowed as Jaime entered his other half roughly; finding her warm and wet and willing upon the rough straw mattress in the small, dimly lit room._

DUM! DOOM! DUM! DOOM!

On the level of the Golden Gallery he came across his father's Steward, Hobar Lannis, waiting for him. Before slapping the insolent man down, Hobar refused to tell Jaime why the bells were ringing; only that his lord Father awaited him on the Lannister seat.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'Not Cersei! Not Cersei! Please Gods, anyone but Cersei!'

" _Hurry," Cersei begged, lifting her wedding gown up over her hips. The ladies-in-waiting would return in less than ten minutes to escort her into the Great Sept of Baelor. He moaned, sliding into her; the merge completing them into one. Too soon he felt the release come upon him; he speeded up from the urgency. "Careful," she hissed. "You'll leave a stain."_

DUM! DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!

As he frantically hurried to the Golden Gallery, stunned, frightened looking Willem and Martyn rushed their weeping, nerveless looking mother, his goodaunt Dorna, to the far side of the hallway from his sprinting form.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

'Lancel? But not Cersei! Not Cersei, please Gods!'

 _He held her, long golden hair draped across his bare chest; a rare hour to laze luxuriously together, the King off on a hunt and the rest of the Keep too busy with their petty concerns. "I tell you, Robert loves me not." "Why must you speak of him?" "He keeps us apart. Don't be so blind."_

DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!

Guards wisely opened one of the two wide main doors to the Golden Gallery for Jaime without requiring him to slow his run a step.

And once within, the door closing just quickly, the Lion wrenched to a stop; frozen in-place by the cold, sharp green eyes of his father, the Old Lion. Not a single tear was in evidence. Jaime would have been shocked to have seen one.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Nothing human watched him from behind those pupils. This was the most dangerous Lion ever born to Westeros; with green eyes, stronger than a host of Valyrian steel, that had stared down every slight, every threat, and every ravenous beast in existence. Not a tear.

And instantly, Jaime knew. "Yes, Cersei," the two little words slipped out of him softly, carelessly, bereft of emotion to barely echo across a now permanently colorless, pointless physical world.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Within, his soul shredded in unimaginable pain feeling at last the loss of his other half. His twin. His love. Himself. This was not how the dream was to end. The mangled, intangible thing bled a river, bled to fill a sea, and continued bleeding as the agony roiled and roiled and roiled inside.

Unlike his sire, this Lion allowed himself the luxury of a single, brief whimper.

DUM! DING! DUM! DONG!

Then Jaime calmly approached the throne of the Lannister's since Lann the Clever himself. "Tell me."

"Dark wings, dark words," the Old Lion intoned; pathetically relying on stupid platitude.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The scroll came out and was handed over.

Jaime's hand was perfectly steady accepting it. He noted the direwolf sigil of House Stark upon the outside.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

With perfectly clear, utterly emotionless eyes; and white hot heat burning within his shattered heart, the most horribly maimed man in the Seven Kingdoms began to read:

 _Lord Tywin, As his Grace has remained disconsolate for days, I take upon myself the terrible burden of informing you of the murder of your daughter, Queen Cersei. While the King and your grandchildren were with me and most of Winterfell on a hunt, the vile deed upon her Grace's person was committed by one whom she most trusted, her cousin Lancel._

 _After the Queen sent off her ladies-in-waiting on errands, the kinslayer apparently tricked her Grace into visiting an abandoned tower. There, by my hunt master's reading of the footprints in the dust on the floor, he tried to ravage her. But her Grace would have nothing of it. In the ensuing struggle, while she was able to push her attacker out a window; alas, she too plummeted to her doom._

 _Let there be no doubt in your mind as to the events of this appalling occurrence; my honor as a Stark upon it. The murderer's broken body was discovered with his pants about his ankles. While her Grace was fully clothed and sporting fresh choke marks that could only have been made by a hand about her throat._

 _Winterfell shall remain silent on this matter and leave it to the King, once he regains himself, to decide what the Realm shall or shall not be told of this tragedy._

 _And as I well know the horror of having close family horribly, senselessly murdered; you and your House have my deepest sympathies. Rest assured, that while your grandchildren remain in Winterfell, they will be denied nothing to ease their pain. Lord Eddard Stark._

'Lies, All lies,' he knew from the very first word. The parchment fell carelessly to his feet as he turned about.

"Jaime."

He no longer heard the bells; deaf to all but the sole purpose left him.

"Jaime."

He strode back the way he came in, came in to the world, grasping for Cersei. Grasping for his twin.

"Jaime!"

He was the _Warrior_.

"JAIME!"

No, he was the _Stranger_. An outcast. Unknown. Unknowable. His was the face of death.

* * *

 **AND SO ENDS ACT ONE OF THIS STORY**


End file.
